


Silent in Sin

by KissingWinchesters



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Edgeplay, Father/Son Incest, Felching, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Masturbation, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissingWinchesters/pseuds/KissingWinchesters
Summary: “It’s alright,” Martin says soothingly. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about what you want. You know I’d give you anything. I’ll give you everything.”
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 144
Kudos: 327





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Andy... this is all your fault.

“Malcolm, my boy. You haven’t been answering my calls.”

Jaw clenched, Malcolm steps further down the alleyway, away from the crime scene. He doesn’t want anyone overhearing.

“I’ve been working. What do you want?”

“Of course, I’ve been following the case on the news. I’ve even seen you a few times. You looked very professional.”

“Yeah, well, I am that’s why.” Malcolm looks behind him, but no ones followed him. “You need to stop calling me.”

There’s a squeak of a wheel, the faintest rattle of a chain, and Malcolm can see perfectly the bracket on the wall of his fathers cell where his restraint is fixed. He steps forward and he’s in the cell too, Martin Whitly solid and real before him.

“You should come and see me.” The vision of his father smiles and Malcolm knows it isn’t real, but he wants it to be.

“I’m not going to do that,” Malcolm replies to the voice on the phone.

The vision talks with his dads voice.

“We both know that you are.” Martin smiles, standing from his desk. The creases around his eyes deepen, his smile widening, and he steps closer. “You’ve missed me as much as I’ve missed you."

“I... I have missed you.” A tear rolls down Malcolm’s cheek and his dad reaches out to wipe it away. Malcolm looks down to see that he’s stood over the red line, but he doesn’t feel any fear that Martin might hurt him. No, the only fear he has is of what he might let himself do, and how easily he would allow it.

“It’s ok, Malcolm. It’s ok, my son.” Martin opens his arms, wide and so inviting. “Come to daddy.”

Malcolm falls into his fathers warm embrace, stumbling, slamming into the side of a building and almost dropping his phone. He’s panting, sweating, and he’s hard. Tears sting his eyes and blur his vision, and he almost throws his phone into the gutter.

“Malcolm? Hello? Are you there? What just happened?”

Lifting the phone to his ear, Malcolm holds his breath to calm himself, then exhales loudly.

“Tonight. I’ll come tonight.”

***

The guard leaves when Malcolm walks into the cell. He can only imagine how much his dad paid him for that.

There are pages spread out on Martin's desk, the sound of his pencil so loud and familiar. Malcolm used to love nothing more than sitting next to his father as a child, watching him create something so detailed and incredible with his hands, listening to him describe everything and explain so that Malcolm could understand. It was wonderful.

“What are you drawing?” Malcolm watches his dad smile, enough for his teeth to show, but he keeps his eyes on the paper he’s working on so intensely.

“Come and have a look,” Martin replies.

Malcolm swallows, his throat suddenly so dry that at first he can’t move. He watches his fathers hands, his veins, the hint of his wrists under the cardigan he loves to wear.

It’s only when the pencil stops moving that Malcolm realises that his father is watching him too.

“It’s ok,” Martin says, his voice soft and safe, and it’s all that Malcolm needs.

He goes around the side of the desk, righting the upside down drawing and seeing it clearly for the first time. It’s the slope of a neck, male, Malcolm thinks absently, and the subtle sweep of a collarbone. The tendon of the neck is shaded so that it stands out, smooth shadows giving it beautiful texture. It’s intimate somehow, and strangely erotic. There’s a small mole or a freckle just where the pencil fades.

Malcolm frowns. It’s a mole. He reaches up to touch the exact spot where it is under his shirt.

He looks closer at the other pages on the desk, picking up a pile within his reach. Most are like the neck drawing, close up snapshots of specific parts of the body, feet, lips, a hip bone, a penis. Others are of an entire body, naked and posed to capture an almost dance like position. They’re all so beautiful that it makes Malcolm’s heart race in his chest.

“You’re blushing,” Martin says, sounding pleased. “You like them.”

He puts an arm around Malcolm, tucking him against his side.

“Do you want to see my favourite one, or do you want to talk about our phone call?”

Malcolm wants both, but most of all he doesn’t want his father to stop.

“Show me,” Malcolm says, glancing towards the door of the cell, but they’re still very much alone.

“You’re the best I’ve ever drawn, my boy. My favourite subject.”

Martin hums and looks through the pages, eventually pulling out a drawing from the bottom of the pile. The body has no face but there’s no mistaking who it is. Back arched, legs spread, two fingers deep inside while the other hand is wrapped around the base of an erection. Malcolm moans and leans further against his father, needing him to hold him up when his legs suddenly threaten to give way.

“Dad...”

“It’s alright,” Martin says soothingly. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about what you want. You know I’d give you anything. I’ll give you everything.”

Malcolm’s fingers hover against the back of his fathers neck, finally clenching in the woollen fabric of the cardigan.

“All you have to do is ask,” Martin continues, turning slightly in his chair. His eyes drag slowly down Malcolm’s body, so heavy on him that Malcolm can almost feel it , settling on the obvious bulge in his pants.

“I want... I...” Malcolm’s words get stuck in his throat, and he lets out a sob of frustration.

“Would you like me to list a few things? You could nod if any sound... appealing.” Martin moves him around so that they’re facing each other, Malcolm snug between his fathers knees.

Breathing out, Martin runs the palm of his hand across Malcolm’s stomach.

“Or you can tell me what you dream about me doing to you.”

Malcolm’s head drops down, his hair covering his eyes. He wants to hide, wants to bury himself in his fathers arms, wants, wants, wants...

“Please, just... touch me.”

“Oh, my sweet boy.” Martin pushes Malcolm’s shirt up, untucking it, revealing a tempting strip of taught skin. “My pleasure.”

The kiss takes Malcolm by surprise, Martins lips and the feel of his beard against him, coarse but so soft too.

“You really are so beautiful.” Martin inhales, breathing his son into his lungs.

A flick of tongue, another kiss, and Martin's hands slide under the shirt and up Malcolm's sides, tracing his ribs with his fingertips.

“Do you dream of this? Of us?”

Martin's thumb brushes a nipple and Malcolm gasps, his body folding forwards. He braces himself on martins strong shoulders.

“Yes,” he replies. No point fighting it. They can’t go back to how it was before, not now.

Martins hands are on Malcolm's belt, deft fingers undoing it easily. Malcolm looks down and sees that his father is aroused too, his cock thick against his thigh.

“So did I.”

Martins hands roam over Malcolm's back and down, sliding unashamedly over his ass and squeezing, bringing his son closer. He nuzzles his face into the opening of his fly.

“Oh, god...” Malcolm threads his fingers into the wild curls of his fathers hair, gripping tightly.

“No, just call me dad.” Martin looks up and smiles, his eyes glinting. “Why don’t you get more comfortable? Here, sit on my lap.”

Malcolm doesn’t move, his grip now around the back of martins neck.

“Are you afraid?” Martin asks, rubbing soothing circles on Malcolm's lower back.

“Of course I am.”

Malcolm breathes out loudly, but it’s not as shaky as it was, and Martin takes that as a good sign. He takes a better one when Malcolm lifts one knee up onto the chair, then the other, bracketing Martin's legs between his own. Straddling him.

He sits down on martins lap, his breath hitching when their cocks rub against each other, dulled by the barrier of their clothing, but no less intimate.

“You’re doing so good. I’m so proud of you.” Martin cups Malcolm's face in his hands, brushing his hair from his forehead and stroking his cheeks. “I love you so much.”

Malcolm closes his eyes and presses his forehead to his fathers. Tears spill from his lashes and he kisses his father.

This time, it’s Martin who is caught off guard. Malcolm nearly laughs at the absurdity of it. Not from what they’re doing, or what they will do, but that the thing that undoes both the Whitly men are kisses.

Malcolm keeps the pace slow, despite the simmering lust that’s threatening to escape his dad at any moment. Martin is shaking he’s so excited, but the last thing he wants to do is to push too hard and scare Malcolm away.

Their tongues slide together and Martin rocks his hips up, clutching at Malcolm's jacket.

“Mmm, if all of you tastes this good I’m in for a real treat,” Martin says, breaking the kiss and bringing their foreheads together again. It makes them both laugh. “Let’s see what you look like first, huh.”

Martin lifts Malcolm's shirt out of the way and puts his hand into his underwear.

“Oh... just wonderful.” Martin sighs, smiling and showing his teeth, like he does when he’s truly happy. “Relax, my boy. I’m going to take good care of you.”

Malcolm moans and settles further on Martin's lap, walls shattering in his mind. They weren’t very stable in the first place, wobbling and eroding every time he let himself think about his father like this. His body feels like it’s going to break apart, sliced open like one of the surgeons victims. The thought only fires his arousal.

Martin's being too gentle, too tender, holding Malcolm's cock in the palm of his hand, curled fingers around the shaft.

“Don’t...” Malcolm bites back another groan.

Martin looks up, puzzled. “Don’t?”

With his free hand, Martin strokes Malcolm's cheek, wiping away another stray tear.

“I need to feel it,” Malcolm says, each word a struggle. “Be rough with me. Don’t be gentle.”

“Malcolm, I’d never hurt you, you know that.”

Nodding, Malcolm wishes that Martin would lift him up, carry him over to the bed and lay him down. The chair isn’t suited for what Malcolm really craves, but moving would mean that they would have to stop touching and Malcolm can't bear that. He doesn’t want them to be parted.

“What is it, son? Tell me what you’re thinking.” Martins keeps a slow steady rhythm on Malcolm's cock, soothing him.

Malcolm looks down from his fathers face to where they join, his dads erection apparently forgotten while Martin tends to his son. The tremor in Malcolm's hand stops and he reaches for Martin's belt.

“Oh, yes...” Martin's eyes fall shut in pleasure, but only for a moment. The real pleasure is looking at the beautiful boy in front of him.

The sound of Malcolm's phone buzzing in his jacket pocket wrenches Malcolm into a different focus. His eyes flick to the doors of the cell, panicked wide.

“Ignore it,” Martin says, clearly irritated. He turns Malcolm's chin back so that he’s looking at him, nostrils flaring in anger when the phone continues to buzz. “No one will come in here. Ignore it.”

But the fear has crept in. The shame, the guilt, the sickness that Malcolm has tried to cover up the majority of his life. He scrambles from his fathers knee and yanks the phone from his pocket.

Martin is silent, his eyes so sad that Malcolm has to look away from him.

“Gil?” Malcolm listens to the information being spoon fed to him, his cock still throbbing but softening too. He zips himself up with one hand. “I’ll be right there. Yes, I’m fine. Ten minutes, ok?”

Malcolm sighs and pockets the phone.

“That was work. I have to go.”  
He looks at his fathers face, keeping his gaze high so that the half undone buckle of his dads belt is out of sight.

“Gil.” Martin snorts. “Is that what you’re calling the good detective Arroyo these days?”

“I’ve called him Gil for a long time.” Malcolm tries to smooth out his clothes, hiding the evidence. Like father, like son, he thinks absently.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to call him something else before now. It’s enough to make a man jealous.”

Malcolm grinds his teeth together, backing away from martins chair and heading towards the cell door.

“I have to go,” he says, more forcefully the second time.

“Malcolm, wait!” Martin gets to his feet, hands outstretched, but the tether stops him from actually reaching his son. He looks dishevelled, and so attractive that it takes all of Malcolm's strength not to run into his arms. “I’m sorry I got angry. I understand you have to leave, but you will come back, won’t you?”

“I don’t know...”

“Please, we have so much to talk about. I need you...”

Malcolm feels the blood drain from his face. He needs his dad so much. He loves him.

He’s in love with him.

Malcolm’s phone buzzes in his hand.

“Goodbye, Doctor.”

“What? No, no, don’t call me... Malcolm? Malcolm!”

Fleeing the cell and all but running down the corridor, Malcolm's heart pounding in his ears, almost loud enough to drown out the sound of his fathers harrowing voice following him like a shadow.

***

“What do you see, kid?”

Malcolm flinches out of a trance, sidestepping Gil before he does anything like try to touch him. Malcolm doesn’t know how bad he’ll flip out if anyone tries to touch him right now.

“It’s been set up to look worse than it is.”

JT snorts and nudges Dani. Malcolm wants to throw the hammer he’s holding at them. He looks away, a wave of guilt smashing into him along with a wave of nausea.

“I mean, it’s overkill. I’m not saying that the actual murder isn’t already bad. But, the killer embellished the scene. That’s... what I meant.” Malcolm squeezes the bridge of his nose.

“Right, uh, why would he do that?” Dani crosses her arms, her expression a mixture of doubt and mocking.

Looking down at the murder weapon in his gloved hands, Malcolm struggles to focus.

“Kid, put that in here for when Dr Tanaka arrives,” Gil says, holding out an evidence bag. He glances at Malcolm like he's just another piece of evidence. “You don’t look so good.”

Everyone is looking at him. They’re all watching him fail, just like they knew he would. Hoped he would.

“The killer is theatrical, but repressed, so they’ll work in the arts but only behind the scenes. They want to be noticed, and the artwork they created here is their way of showing the world who they are. He’s mid to late thirties, unmarried, and...”

Malcolm looks out of the window, blood spatter making the view of the city abstract and fractured.

“Bright?”

One of the team, JT he thinks, says his name. Only it’s not his name, not really. The way he tells people, they assume it’s been changed to Bright legally, and Malcolm never corrects them. He wants people to think it’s his name, but there was no way that he was cutting his fathers name from him.

Martin used to sit beside Malcolm as a child, and they’d write their initials side by side.

_‘We’re the same.'_

“Malcolm?” Gil’s hand is on his shoulder and Malcolm spins, jerking back and almost crashing into the window, smearing the blood evidence on his clothes.

“Sorry, sorry...” Malcolm lifts his hands and forces a smile, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“Look, maybe you need a break from this?” Gil is leading him away from the crime scene, and the bludgeoned body on the floor.

“No, I don’t need a break, ok? I’m just...” Malcolm laughs, bordering on hysterical. “It’s been a long day.”

“Oh? What have you been doing?” Gil eyes him, a knowing look that says he already has a suspicion.

Malcolm bites his tongue. If Gil really knew what he’d been up to.

“I had a therapy session. It...” Malcolm sighs, the phantom pressure of his fathers thighs between his own making him sweat. “It took a lot out of me. But, I can work, please Gil.”

The detective exhales, looking pained. Malcolm is used to that look when it comes to him.

“How about I call you in the morning? You try to get some sleep tonight and we’ll go from there.”

Malcolm knows that’s the opposite of what’ll happen. Gil will call him. Tell him something about them having a lead on a suspect and that maybe Malcolm's profiling skills aren’t needed on this one after all. It’s kind, and thoughtful, and Malcolm wants to scream at the top of his lungs.

“Gil...”

“Go home. Get some rest.”

Gil is immovable, and the tiny shred of fight that Malcolm had is gone.

“Maybe you’re right, I just need sleep.” Malcolm's voice tastes mechanical in his mouth, robotic. The anger passes like a flame following a line of fuel, furious in the moment and then snuffed out just as quickly. That is what Malcolm is. Snuffed out.

He backs away from Gil, away from his outstretched hand, away from the team all looking at him with worry.

Malcolm mutters that he’ll see everyone tomorrow, shame making his limbs heavy as he walks away.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes incessantly. His mother, his sister, but none from the number still listed as unknown. Malcolm switches the damn thing off and stumbles home through the city, itching for his restraints.

His head is pounding by the time he climbs the stairs to his lift apartment, and he sheds his suit like a dead skin, flakes littering the floor until he’s naked. Malcolm considers not taking his meds, letting the mess in his head really let loose, but he knows that’s just the depression talking. It’s what it wants.

Forcing the pills down his throat, Malcolm puts in his mouth guard and ties himself down.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he turns his face into the pillow and the wetness startles him.

The restraints bite into his skin, and Malcolm welcomes the pain.

***

The door to martins cell swings open easily. It always does in Malcolm's dreams.

_“Oh, it’s you.”_

“Yes.” Malcolm swallows, taking in the shape of his father sitting on his bed. “I thought... you wanted to see me.”

Martin scoffs, swings his legs off the bed, and observes his son. There’s no light in his eyes, no happiness, no desire, nothing. If anything, Martin looks like if Malcolm's blood were spilling out from his neck it would be nothing but an inconvenient mess to clean up.

“But, you want me. Dad, please... I know you want me.”

Malcolm wants to touch his father, shake the cruelness from his eyes. He surges forward, arms encircling Martin, trapping his arms down.

“I love you,” Malcolm says, his chest hurting. “Tell me what I did wrong and I’ll stop.”

 _“There’s nothing you can do,”_ Martin replies coldly. _“I don’t want to see you again.”_

Malcolm stumbles back like martin punched him.

“But we... what about...” Malcolm lifts his hand to his father again but he’s out of reach.

_“Oh, that.”_

Martins laugh cuts through Malcolm's skin like a blade. Warm and red, his life begins to leak from a gash above his heart.

 _“It was all in your head, my boy.”_ Another cruel laugh and Martin is shaking his head, grinning. _“You know, it’s always been in the back of my mind.”_

“What has?” Malcolm is shaking in fear because he already knows what Martin is going to say.

_“Your mother wasn’t always entirely faithful to me. Not that I minded much. As long as the appearance of our marriage remained in tact I had very little interest in your mother.”_

“Stop it, please. Dad...”

 _“But, that’s just it. Am I?”_ Martin runs his hand over his beard. _“It would make your obsession with me slightly less repulsive. Just look at you. You need help, can’t you see that?”_

Malcolm looks down. He’s unmistakably hard.

 _“Get out,”_ Martin says, scowling in disgust. _“I don’t want to see you here again. I don’t even want to hear your name.”_

Blood soaks Malcolm's clothes, his hands slick with it as he tries to stop the flow of it.

“Dad.”

Blood pours through Malcolm's fingers, and he wakes up gasping for air.

“Dad!”

Malcolm hisses and tastes blood on his tongue. His mouth guard is on the edge of the bed, which explains why his lip is split. That’s never happened before.

“Fuck...” Malcolm touches his lip, shivering now that the sweat coating his feverish body is cooling. He scrabbles for the sheets, forgetting that his arms are still bound.

It takes twenty minutes for his trembling fingers to still for long enough for him to work the release mechanism. By the time he manages to get out of bed he feels exhausted, but the bed was so damp that he didn’t have any other choice.

Picking up his jacket from the floor, and pulling on his boxers, Malcolm stares at the black screen of his phone. He must have switched it off sometime after Gil sent him home from the murder scene. Malcolm's memory feels fuzzy around the edges.

The line of medicine bottles on the counter should help with that a little, and if they don’t, that’s ok with him too.

Malcolm drinks a whole glass of water before taking each of his pills slowly. The affirmation cards are left untouched.

Holding his finger against the power button, Malcolm's phone comes back to life, immediately flashing and buzzing with unanswered messages and missed calls. He quickly sends messages to his mother, Ainsley and Gil letting them know he’s fine. He keeps it vague, enough so that they’ll leave him alone for now, or he hopes so anyway.

There are two voicemail messages waiting to be listened to.

Malcolm’s stomach churns, the dream resurfacing.

He should shower, should clean himself and his bed up, maybe eat something before he collapses. There are a lot of things that Malcolm should do.

He doesn’t do any of them, of course. He tugs a blanket off the arm of the couch and wraps himself in it, lying down and turning his back on the room.

“Malcolm, now I don’t want you to be upset. I’m not angry at you, do you hear?”

Martin sighs, and Malcolm pictures his hands resting gently against the softness of his stomach.

“Things got a little heated... I’m sure it was overwhelming for you after all this time.”

Malcolm’s heart beats like a hummingbirds wings, fluttering wildly inside his rib cage. So his dad knows. After all this time, he said. That can only mean that he’s known about Malcolm's feelings for him. He probably knew before Malcolm could even identify them himself. He doesn’t know whether to be feel relieved or humiliated.

“Maybe you can come back to see me soon, so we can talk and... oh, my boy, I have so much that I want you to know. We’ve missed out on so much, we should treasure our... re-connection.”

Malcolm’s cheeks flame, but the sound of Martin's soft words have eased a lot of the anxiety lingering on him from the nightmare. Martin isn’t disgusted with him, he isn’t rejecting him, he still wants him.

“I’ll call you again tomorrow,” Martin says, his phone time terribly brief. “Be a good boy and come see your old dad soon, alright. I’m missing you.”

The message ends and Malcolm listens to it again. He closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to picture his father in his cell, how he looks when he’s talking into the phone, what his mouth looks like around the carefully chosen words.

After the forth listen, Malcolm plays the second message.

“My call was cut short, so I insisted they let me get you back to finish my message. I wanted to tell you that I love you.”

Malcolm sits upright on the couch, cocooned in the blanket, cross legged as he plays the message on repeat.

_I love you._

_I love you._

The message is interrupted by a beep that means there's a call waiting. It's his mother, of course. Malcolm could really do without speaking to her right now. Groaning, he answers the call anyway, putting it on speakerphone.

“Malcolm, where the hell have you been?”

“Working,” Malcolm answers, aware of the shortness in his tone. He gets up, which is an effort, and collects the box that his mother dropped off to him a few days ago. The box that Malcolm's mind had decided to keep hidden from him for twenty years. He goes over to the breakfast bar and sits down on a stool.

“Oh, yes, you’re always working. We were meant to meet for brunch today, remember? I called and called, but of course, no answer. Then I called Gil.”

Malcolm hums, barely listening. He lifts some crumpled edged photographs from the box, the top one is of his dad hugging him from behind, dressed in red plaid and camping jacket.

“Malcolm? Are you listening to me? Gil told me he took you off the case. Personally I think it’s a good thing, but then again I think you should quit it altogether. Huh, what do I know, I’m only your mother.”

“It’s just... now is not a good time.”

“Is any time ever good?” Jessica huffs. “You can talk to me about anything, you know. I understand.”

Malcolm looks down at the frozen image of his father smiling up at him and knows that what she just said isn’t true. No one but Martin Whitly has ever, or could ever understand him.

“Do you want me to come over?” Jessica asks. “I can cook something for you?”

Malcolm scoffs and looks further in the shoe box. Jessica would most likely get her housekeeper to prepare some food for him.

“No, really, I’m fine. I...” Malcolm moves some small toys and lifts up a pile of papers, childhood drawings and sketches. Tucked in between them is the unmistakable corner of an envelope. Malcolm frowns and pulls it free, his heart thudding when he sees his fathers neat handwriting on the front. "What the...”

“Malcolm?”

The letter is sealed, and Malcolm has no memory of seeing it before in his life.

“Where did this come from?”

“Hm, what do you mean?” Jessica sounds mildly inconvenienced, not unlike how she usually sounds.

“This letter from dad, in my old shoe box. When did he send it?” The paper crumples in Malcolm's hand as he holds it close to his chest. “Did you keep it from me?”

“Ugh, oh that. Of course I did. Your father had just been arrested for twenty three murders, Malcolm. It’s not likely that I’d want you reading whatever lies he put in a letter.”

The tremor in Malcolm's hand adds to the way his hands are already shaking.

“I intended on throwing the whole box in the trash like it deserves, but with everything that happened back then, I suppose I just missed it."

“It’s addressed to me. You shouldn’t have kept it from me!” Malcolm's own raised voice startled him.

“He’s a monster,” Jessica says, her voice slow and deep, almost menacing. “You were a child, and my son, and I would have done anything to protect you from him. I still would.”

Malcolm is silent, turning the envelope over in his hand. In the bottom corner there’s a small drawing, a sketch of his fathers, of an anatomical heart. On the other end of the phone he hears his mother sigh.

“I knew that seeing your father again would do this to you. I knew he’d get in your head.”

“I’m not seeing him.”

“Malcolm, you sound terrible... of course you’re seeing him.”

“Mom...”

“No, don’t you lie to me. You need to think about if it’s worth you sacrificing yourself for him, your health, your sanity...” Jessica makes a noise of frustration, and Malcolm can hear the click of her shoes as she paces. “Go to see Dr Le Deux, please Malcolm. You need to talk to someone, even if that’s not me.”

Malcolm feels a twinge if guilt when his first thought is that he does have someone to talk to. He doesn’t think his mother would appreciate his answer though.

“I’ll drop some food by later, no arguments. You should rest, and try to sleep, I’m sure you’ll be dragged back into another brutal murder case before too long.”

“Mom... I will. Rest, I mean.” Malcolm traces his finger along the seal of the envelope.

“Goodbye, Malcolm.” Jessica hangs up.

He stares at his phone screen until it goes blank, then shifts his focus back to the letter.

He’s afraid to open it, but there might be answers in there that he’s been chasing for twenty years. He’d been the one to call the cops on his dad, but that didn’t mean that he stopped idealising him, or loving him. He’d stopped talking for months when his father had been convicted and Malcolm knew that he’d never be coming home.

Despite everything that Dr Martin Whitley had done, Malcolm wasn’t capable of hating him.

Using a kitchen knife, Malcolm opens the letter, not wanting to tear something that’s remained sealed for so long. It’s barely a page long and was obviously written in haste and Malcolm can’t help the deep feeling of disappointment that there isn’t more. One thing he’s learned is that when it comes to his father, Malcolm is insatiable. He always wants more.

Malcolm reads each word carefully, his fathers voice so clear in his head that he might be standing right behind him.

***

_Malcolm, my boy_

_Don’t be scared, I want you to know that you did the right thing and I’m proud of you. I’m always so proud of you._

_I’ll miss you terribly, but I hope that in time you’ll be able to come and visit me. You are so special, Malcolm, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Continue with your studies, my smart boy, and maybe I can continue to teach you things when, and I mean when, we are together again._

_No one can keep you from me, and even if we can’t always be in the same room, we are always together. You fill up my heart, Malcolm._

_You might hear some stories about me, but I want you to know that I wouldn’t ever hurt you, because I love you so very much._

_I remember the very second you were born, I was there when it happened, because I knew that I should be the first one to look into your eyes. You looked right back at me, so strong even then. You must be strong again now. I know you will be, and don’t be afraid._

_We’re the same, Malcolm. Always remember that, and it will help you get through any bad times._

_I will see you soon, I promise._

_All my love, Dad_

Malcolm leans his forehead on the counter top, the cold marble helping with the migraine that’s taking hold. The letter is so typical Martin. He still talks to Malcolm like that now. Like he’s the only thing in his world. The only thing he loves.

There’s no point in lying to himself about the thrill that gives him. If he thought that anyone could take his place in his dads heart the jealousy would probably kill him.

“We’re the same,” Malcolm says, tasting the words on his tongue.

They taste like the memory of his dads lips.

***

“Malcolm? I thought I’d get your voicemail again. How delightful to hear you.”

“I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“Don’t be.”

Malcolm can tell that Martin is smiling just by the tone of his voice. He picks absently at the leftover food that his mother dropped off yesterday.

“How are you, my boy? Have you slept?”

“No, but that’s nothing new...” Malcolm laughs humorlessly. “I’m fine though. I got kicked off the case I left you to go to.”

“Kicked off?” Martin doesn’t react to Malcolm's comment about him leaving him.

“Yeah, I, Uh... Gil thinks I need a break. He’s probably right.”

“Hmm. Why don’t you come to see me? I don’t have much phone time and I think we can talk better face to face.”

Malcolm turns the envelope containing his fathers letter, moving it in a slow circle. It’s brought so many old feelings to the surface of his consciousness, things that he’s pushed down and tried to avoid looking at too hard.

“Malcolm?”

“Yeah, yes... I want to see you.” Malcolm cleats his throat and pushes the food away from him. “I was wondering...”

“Wondering what? Tell me?” Martin sounds so eager for Malcolm's words, hungry for them.

“There are cameras in the corridor leading to your room.”

There’s a dark, low laugh from Martin, the clink of his chain meaning he’s on his feet. Malcolm touches his lips, his heart beating rapidly.

“So there are, my boy, so there are.”

“How do I get the footage?”

“I assume you could just ask for it,” Martin says. “Flash your badge and people will do just about anything for you.”

Malcolm sighs, disappointed.

“I don’t have a badge, dad. I’m a profiler not a cop.”

“That won’t stop you from getting what you want, will it?”

Malcolm wants to tell Martin exactly what it is that he wants. Ever since he realised that they wouldn’t have been filmed together from inside the cell, and that there might be some footage from the cameras leading to it, Malcolm has fantasised about just what those cameras caught. Would it show them kissing? Would it show him getting onto his fathers lap? Would it show how he was a willing participant in it all? Malcolm blushes at the possibilities of that footage, his hand pressing down between his legs.

“Hmm, did you just moan? Oh I’d give anything to be able to see it myself. Maybe you can describe it to me when you do?”

“Dad...”

“Visiting hours will be over soon, my boy. Better hurry if you want that footage.”

Taking a deep breath, Malcolm releases it slowly, taking the heel of his hand off his growing erection.

“Good. Wait until you’ve got something really interesting to watch,” Martin says, sounding just as breathless. “The anticipation will be so much better.”

“I’ll wait. I’ll be there soon.”

“See you soon, Malcolm,” Martin says, and the phone clicks when he hangs up.

Malcolm leaves his apartment and heads straight for Claremont.

***

It only takes a flash of his pass for the guards at the psychiatric hospital to give Malcolm access to the security footage. Saying it was to do with an ongoing investigation, Malcolm didn’t even have to go into detail before he was let into a small office to get what he needs.

“Do you need help finding the day, Mr Bright?”

Malcolm sits down on a swivel chair and looks up, smiling.

“I can manage, thanks.” He touches a usb stick in his pocket, waiting for the guard to leave before taking the footage. “I’ll be needing to see Dr Whitly before I leave. Would you mind getting the clearance done now, I know visiting hours are almost up.”

The guard nods, happy to help, and Malcolm thinks about just how easy it is for him to lie. And how much he enjoys doing it.

“No problem, Mr Bright. Let me know if you need help looking for anything.”

Malcolm waits until the guard leaves before taking the usb out of his pocket and calmly inserting it into the computer tower. He has to be quick, can’t risk anyone coming in and seeing just what it is that he’s going to download.

Finding the file with the correct date, Malcolm inputs the section of time he wants to capture, adding thirty minutes each side of the time he was with his father. If anyone were smart enough to check for downloads, they’d see nothing of interest for thirty minutes and at least that gives Malcolm hope that they won’t see what he’s really interested in.

Unfortunately, Malcolm can’t see any of the footage yet either, only a blue bar slowly getting longer and longer as the file gets transferred. He wants to know what he looks like on the footage, if he’ll even recognise himself. More than that, he wants to see how Martin looked when Malcolm had his eyes closed.

The blue bar gets to 88% and a tap on the window makes Malcolm jump. He glances at the usb, but from the guards angle he shouldn’t be able to see it.

“Yeah, almost done.” Malcolm gives a thumbs up, dying inside, and biting his lip to stop a hysterical burst of laughter.

“Twenty minutes until lock down, Mr Bright.”

Malcolm lifts his hand to show he understands, and the blue bar on the screen disappears. He pulls out the usb and slides it into his pocket, smoothing his hair back, suddenly nervous.

Closing the file, Malcolm leaves the office and heads to the guards station to sign the visitors book.

“We’ll sound a bell when your time is up,” the guard says, watching Malcolm pass through the secured doors.

“Thanks,” Malcolm replies, his voice betraying none of the pent up anticipation swirling in his chest. He’s anxious, excitedly so, but his hands are steady as he walks the short distance to martins room. Malcolm wonders what his psychiatrist would make of the fact that his serial killer father is the only one that makes Malcolm have some sort of stability in his life.

When Malcolm gets to the doorway of the cell, Martin is sitting in his chair, a closed book under his fingers on the desk. His face lights up with a smile when he sees Malcolm.

“You made it in time” he says, leaning back slightly. “I knew you’d come back. Come here, my boy. I wanted to show you something.”

Malcolm swallows, his feet carrying him as though he weighs nothing to his fathers side. Martins hand touches Malcolm's hip when he stands up and he shivers noticeably.

"Did you get it?"

Martin opens the book on the desk, a slim attempt at creating up an excuse as to why Malcolm is over the white line should anyone come in.

"Yes," Malcolm answers.

“Fantastic. You look so good,” Martin says, standing directly behind Malcolm, bracketing him against the desk. “You weren’t too shaken up after the other day?”

Martins cock is hard against Malcolm's ass, the soft roundness of his stomach at his back. Malcolm leans back against him.

“I spiralled a little.” Malcolm gasps, his dads nimble fingers opening the front of his suit pants.

“Uh-Huh, and what made you come to this decision. Being here, I mean. With me.”

Martins draws Malcolm's cock up into his palm, stroking it to hardness.

“I... I wanted to stop lying to myself,” Malcolm gasps, reaching behind him and rubbing his dad through his prison uniform.

“That’s my good boy. And doesn’t it feel better?” Martin kisses Malcolm’s neck.

“Yes... dad...”

Martin works Malcolm's erection like the skilful surgeon that his is, taking such excruciatingly good care of him that Malcolm can already feel his balls tightening.

“Malcolm?”

“Ahh, yeah?” Malcolm slams a hand down on the desk.

“Will you do me a favour? When you watch what’s on that stick, when you touch yourself to it...” Martin grinds a little harder against Malcolm's ass. “When you come... call out for me. Call out for daddy.”

“Oh fuck... oh, oh...” Malcolm pitches forward, but Martin keeps him upright with one arm around his waist while his other hand keeps stroking him through his orgasm.

Martin puts his nose into the crook of Malcolm's shoulder, breathing in and shuddering as though it was him that just came.

“Will you do that for me?” Martin keeps rutting against Malcolm's hand and ass, chasing his own release.

“Of course I will.”

“Ohh, my beautiful son.” Martin bares his teeth, such pure pleasure etched on his face. “The things I have planned for us.”

A bell rings, the reminder that visiting time is drawing to a close. The sound of a metal door opening and closing makes Malcolm turn around, taking Martin in hand to finish him off. He wants to see him, bare and leaking, but they don’t have time and Malcolm needs to make his dad come.

He cups him through his pants, rubbing hard and with more urgency than finesse. It doesn’t seem to bother Martin, a moan from his lips passing through the charged air between them right into Malcolm's mouth.

Malcolm wants more of that sound, and so he leans forward, their lips touching, not entirely a kiss but enough. Martins grabs Malcolm by the tops of his arms, moaning again and giving Malcolm what he wants.

“Hurry up,” Malcolm says, smiling at the illusion of power he has over his father. “The guard will be here any second.”

“Oh, like I care,” Martin says, his voice barely higher than a whisper. “Open me up.”

Malcolm blinks and looks up from his dads crotch.

“What?”

“I think it’s only fair, my boy. Your turn to hurry...”

Martin's laugh drowns out whatever else he was going to say.

“So eager,” he says, watching Malcolm pulling the zipper down and easing his fingers inside. “Yeah, like that... oh, I’m so close. Dad's so close, Malcolm.”

“Next time...” Malcolm licks his lips, making sure Martin sees it. “I’ll be on my knees for you.”

Martins whole body convulses and Malcolm feels come coat his fingers. Without thinking, Malcolm brings his hand to his mouth, sucking his index finger clean.

“Good lord, when did you get so bold?” Martin says, sounding dazed.

“I have no idea.” Malcolm clears his throat and does up his pants, separating them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm sees his father adjust himself and zip up, and despite what he just did... what they just did, he feels himself blush.

“I hope you’ll remember what I asked,” Martin says, taking a seat in his chair and crossing his legs. He looks messy, used, and when he touches his lips his eyes fall closed. “I expect a detailed report when I see you tomorrow.”

The door to the cell opens and martins guard David steps in. He observes the two men, giving Malcolm a look he can’t quite understand the meaning of.

“I’ll come back if I need information for the case. Goodbye, Dr Whitly.”

Malcolm turns, adrenaline making him feel invincible. He all but struts out of the cell and down the corridor, his fingers grazing the usb stick in his pocket.

***

He should feel guilty.

Malcolm watches for the tremor in his hand. It doesn’t come.

He should be feeling wrong. Sick.

Perverted.

Disgusting.

Malcolm takes off his clothes and steps into the shower. The temperature is the perfect heat, just below too hot, but still enough to turn every exposed part a fiery red. He tips his head back out of the spray, letting it run down his body, steam filling the decadent shower stall in his bathroom.

His shower gel isn’t an expensive brand. The ones that are, gifted from his mother or Ainsley, sit unused in the cupboard below the sink. He likes his own one because he likes the smell of it. That familiar, deep, heady scent, earthy and rich.

Malcolm smiles.

He should feel bad.

Messed up just took on a real new meaning.

Malcolm takes his time cleaning himself, enjoying the solitude, and the silence. In there, Malcolm doesn’t feel any of the shame that he knows will come when reality drags him back into the world. In his apartment, in his fathers cell, he doesn’t have to hide who he is. For as long as it lasts, anyway.

Malcolm shuts off the water and dries himself off, putting on some briefs and going to take his meds. He takes his time with them, his phone flat on the counter in front of him, an idea adding to the buzz of anticipation growing in his gut.

The glow of his laptop on the edge of his bed draws his gaze, the usb from the hospital still in the port. After... when he’s finished, Malcolm plans to save the file in numerous places, his phone included. He doesn’t want to risk losing the footage.

“Want to know my affirmation, sunshine?” Malcolm looks over at his parakeet. “It says, ‘I am worthy of all that I desire’.”

The parakeet chirps.

“All that I desire,” Malcolm repeats to himself.

Picking up his phone, Malcolm goes to the bed, lying down and positioning the laptop in a place he can see it easily. He’s nervous, his heart racing with excitement as he clicks the file with the security footage inside. Malcolm’s even jumpier when he opens his phone and sets it to record an audio file. He’d seen Martin listening to music a few times, wearing headphones, and he thought that maybe he could give him a gift. One he knows that Martin will find a gripping listen.

Malcolm breathes out a shaky breath, running his hand down his chest and opening his legs. His cock is already showing an interest, renting his briefs slightly, but Malcolm avoids touching himself just yet. He knows the footage won’t last long, but he wants his own recording to be as long as he hold off from coming.

Malcolm presses record on his phone.

His next breath, he makes sure to make it loud enough for his dad to hear.

Malcolm has always had sensitive skin, his own fingertips raising goosebumps, up his arms and his stomach.

“Ohh.”

Malcolm hears martins head in his voice, telling him not to be shy. _Let me hear you, my boy._

“Mmm...” Malcolm’s fingers brush the line of hair leading to the base of his cock, which twitches and throbs so responsively that Malcolm has to start the footage on his laptop sooner than he’d planned.

On the screen, Malcolm sees himself enter his fathers cell and after a few moments, he approaches the desk where his father sits, when he was looking at the sketches his dad was drawing of him. The view, Malcolm is relieved to find, is perfect. He’ll be able to see everything.

Malcolm slides his briefs over his hips, his breath hitching as the cool air caresses his cock. Malcolm puts his hand over the top of it, just some pressure.

“I’m so hard,” he says. “We haven’t even started yet.”

On the screen, Martin is putting his arm around him, so pleased that Malcolm liked his drawings. He tells Malcolm that he’s the best he’s ever drawn.

Malcolm can’t hear what they’re saying very well, but he remembers every word clearly. He also remembers the last drawing he looked at, the one of him spread out naked, fingers deep inside his ass, explicitly erotic.

“How many other drawings do you have of me, dad? What positions did you put me in?”

Malcolm moves his phone off the bed and lies it on his hipbone. He takes his cock in his hand and strokes it, smiling at the sound Martin is sure to recognise. Malcolm feels filthy, and his smile grows.

“ _All you have to do is ask_ ,” Martin says, after Malcolm's fingers grip tightly at the back of martins sweater, his knuckles white.

“You knew I’d ask... oh, fuck, I wanted you so much...” Malcolm's back arches a little, his ass pressing into the mattress. The phone stays in its place on his him, secured by the sheen of sweat now covering his body. He moans softly, touching his nipples and squeezing them, scraping his nails over them and hissing at the sting of pain.

On the screen, Martin is positioning him between his legs. Malcolm studies his own features, shocked at how stripped bare he looks, how raw. Malcolm has lived in a cage for as long as his father has, only no one but himself could see it.

_'Or you can tell me what you dream about me doing to you.'_

Martin has a glint in his eye. He never gives away his power, even if he lets you believe you’re in control, Martin Whitley is the one in charge. Malcolm sucks two fingers into his mouth and moans.

 _'Please, just... touch me.'_ He sees himself say, and Malcolm lifts his knee, digging his heel into the bed. He removes his fingers and presses them against his ass hole.

 _'Oh, my sweet boy.'_ Malcolm bites his lip as he watches his dad untuck his shirt, pushing it up until he can see his stomach. _'My pleasure.'_

Malcolm pushes the tips of his fingers into his ass, gasping loudly. The word that Martin wanted him to say sits on the tip of Malcolm's tongue, he wants to say it desperately, but he has to wait. It’s not easy though, not when he sees martin kissing him on the screen. Malcolm’s cock throbs in his hand and he cries out as a wave of pleasure makes the muscles in his stomach clench.

“Oh, god... when you kissed me...” Malcolm had felt something settle in his mind, a jagged edge of himself that he’d wanted for so long, finally fitting in the mess that is his head.

 _'You really are so beautiful.'_ Martin takes his son in hungrily, and kisses him again, touching him under Malcolm's shirt. Removing his fingers from his ass Malcolm mirrors his dads movements, tracing teasing patterns up and down his ribs.

_'Do you dream of this? Of us?'_

Malcolm tips his head back, his eyes closing even though he’s desperate to keep watching. He’d told Martin that he had dreamt about them doing what they were doing. He can’t remember when it started, Harvard he thinks, but he frequently dreamt about his dad in ways that became more and more graphic. Touching, kissing, then eventually more sexual acts. He’d been terrified, confused, but he’d been curious too. His first orgasm had happened after one of those dreams.

“Oh, fuck...” Malcolm moans, thrusting into his hand. It’s not enough friction, and it doesn’t feel how he wants it to, so Malcolm flips over onto his stomach. His cock drags against the sheets. “Yes, fuck that’s it...”

Looking back at the monitor, he’s missed something because he’s on Martin's lap, sitting down and rubbing himself on his fathers cock. It doesn't matter. It's not going to be the only time that Malcolm watches.

“Ahh, dad...” Malcolm grinds against the mattress, his hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes. “I want to come, dad... please...”

_'You’re doing so good. I’m so proud of you. I love you so much.'_

Malcolm moans, hearing those words again almost tipping him over the edge. He knows that after Martin had said that to him he couldn’t stop himself seeking more hungry kisses. It had only lasted thirty seconds, maybe sixty, but it had felt like time had slowed and nothing else existed but them.

Breathing hard, Malcolm claws at the bedding, humping the sheets that are pooled in a messy tangle underneath him. He wants it to be Martin beneath him, wants it to be his father that he’s fucking and not sheets.

_'Mmm, if all of you tastes this good I’m in for a real treat.'_

“Oh, fuck... da...” Malcolm bites his lip hard, sliding his hand under his stomach and curling his fingers around his cock, just as Martin does the same on the screen.

_'Oh... just wonderful. Relax, my boy. I’m going to take good care of you.'_

Malcolm can feel tears well up in his eyes, his toes clenching and un-clenching as he tries to hold off his orgasm. He knows what’s coming, and that means that he’s going to be denied it twice.

_'Don’t...'_

_'Don’t?'_ He hears martin ask, curious.

_'Be rough with me. Don’t be gentle.'_

_'Malcolm, I’d never hurt you, you know that.'_

Malcolm cries out. He’d wanted to tell Martin all the ways he wanted to be hurt, everything he’s dreamed of, and fantasised about. He would have too, spilled every secret that live inside him if it hadn’t been for his damn phone ringing and his nerve failing him.

Malcolm squeezes his eyes closed, not wanting to see himself leaving his father. He imagines his dad kissing him again, how his hand looked jerking him off, the thickness of his thighs and the weight of his cock

“Fuck... want you... want you to fuck me, dad.”

Malcolm speeds up his hand, thrusting hard and feeling his balls draw together with each desperate snap of his hips.

“Dad.... let me come, I’ve been good... I’ve been good, please.”

Behind his eyelids Malcolm sees Martin's face, smiling at him, those wild eyes so bright. He nods, pride shining from him like light.

“Ahh, yes.... yes, daddy. Daddy!” Malcolm thrashes and comes, his cock throbbing in his fist. He comes so hard that he coats his stomach, the bed, even his chest with the force of it. 

It's too much, too good, and Malcolm only just manages to end the recording before passing out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm goes back to work and into reckless danger.

“Hey, you’re back.”

Malcolm shrugs like it’s no big deal, smiling at Dani and then everyone else in the briefing room.

“Looks like it.”

“How are you kid?” Gil lifts a mug of coffee to his lips and takes a sip.

“Wanting to catch up on what I missed,” Malcolm replies, sitting down and pulling a file towards him.

“A big old mess,” TJ says, shooting a look to Dani.

“There was a print on the hammer used to kill Robert Grey that led us to a man called Alex Eversley.” Gil holds up the photo of the suspect and Malcolm scans the information in his own file.

“He works in set design at the Shubert theatre. You called that,” JT says.

Malcolm keeps reading. “His print was on the hammer, but he had an alibi?”

“He did. He was cagey about it, but turns out he was sleeping with his best friends wife at the time of the murder,” Gil says, lifting an eyebrow. “They recorded it on her phone, date and time confirm it.”

Malcolm’s hand shakes and he moves it under the table, ignoring everyone’s glances. He looks at the list of employees at the theatre, but none of them seem to fit.

“What’s playing at the theatre?” Malcolm asks.

Dani slides over a programme listing all of the plays and shows over the next few weeks. Malcolm looks through the cast listed for each play.

“Did you find any connection about Gray and the theatre?” Malcolm asks, directing his question at anyone.

“He was a critic,” JT answers, opening his phone and showing it to Malcolm. “A fancy pants theatre blog.”

“He didn’t sugarcoat his reviews either,” Gil adds, standing up and walking to the evidence board. “Hundreds of comments on his articles, threats to break his legs, one or two to kill him.”

“Maybe one went through with it?” Dani says. “We can’t rule out that it wasn’t one of his readers.”

Malcolm leans over the table and takes JT’s phone out of his hand. He closes Instagram and smirks at JT, stopping him from complaining by not revealing him slacking off at work.

“I think the killer did read Grey’s blog. Here, three nights ago Grey posted a review of The Passage. Not a scathing review, not raving either, but...” Malcolm hums as he scroll down the page. “Grey makes a comment about the lack of depth of the set, and the flatness of the scenery.”

Gil frowns and takes the phone, reading the section of blog.

“But all the set designers at the theatre checked out for the time of the murder.”

Malcolm leans back in his chair and holds up the theatre programme.

“The Passage has its own crew, including two set designers. They travel with the production and aren’t based at the theatre.” He points at the two names printed on the page. “Our killer is either Frank Redfern or Matty Pierce.”

Gil smiles and shakes his head, impressed.

“Welcome back, kid. Looks like we’re going to the theatre.”

***

“Avoiding someone?”

Malcolm blinks and looks over at Gil. They’re driving to the Shubert theatre and Malcolm must have zoned out. He looks at the phone in his hand, it’s screen black.

“Just...”

“Jessica?”

Malcolm smiles. “And Ainsley. Worlds greatest son and brother award goes to me, right?”

“You’re too hard on yourself. You’ve got a lot to deal with, especially now your dad is harassing you again.”

Malcolm looks out the window.

“You’re doing the right thing not seeing him. And your mom and Aimsley will stop worrying so much and giving you less reason to switch your phone off.”

Gil chuckles and Malcolm smiles weakly. The recording he made is on a memory stick in his pocket, just waiting to be downloaded to the headphones Martin has in his cell.

They arrive at the theatre and Gil gives them all instructions, looking at Malcolm when he says not to do anything stupid that might spook the suspect.

“Doesn’t sounds like something I would do,” Malcolm says, grinning and heading through the doors. The others jog to catch up with him.

“We called ahead,” Dani says, pointing to the staff only doors. “We’ve got access to the backstage areas.”

“There’s a matinee in a few hours,” Malcolm says. “Where’s the stage? I’m betting that’s where they’ll be.”

“Ten bucks,” JT says.

“Giving your money away? Your loss,” Malcolm says, smiling. “Here we are. Enter stage right.”

Malcolm slips through a deep red velvet curtain before JT can reply.

“Hey, guys.” He gives the two men on stage a little wave.

“So much for not doing anything stupid,” Dani mutters. Her hand rests near to her weapon.

“Uh, you’re not supposed to be in here,” the shorter man says.

“You’re Matty, right? Which must make you Frank?” Malcolm moves further onto the stage, peering up admiringly at the grandness of the theatre. “It’s really amazing in here. And the sets, wow. You guys are really talented.”

Matty and Frank look at each other.

“Can’t take criticism though, can you Matty? It’s never easy, hearing your faults, trust me I know.” Malcolm approaches Matty, not listening to the protests from Gil and the others. “Bit extreme though, bludgeoning someone who didn’t like your work.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matty says, but he looks at the exit and back to Malcolm, sizing him up.

“We saw the blog. Robert Grey wasn’t very nice about you, was he? I’ve got to say though, I think he was wrong. Your set is impressive.”

“Damn right it is.”

“It must have pissed you off then? Seeing what he wrote.” Malcolm keeps edging closer, his hands raised to show he’s unarmed.

“Is that why you killed him?” Gil says from behind Malcolm. Matty edges forward. “Stand still!”

“Gil, it’s ok. We’re just talking, right Matty?”

“Grey was a fraud. He wouldn’t know good theatre if it hit him in the face,” Matty says bitterly. He looks over towards Frank again but he’s backed away from him. Something passes over Marty’s face, but it’s gone in a second.

“I made him see the artist I am,” Matty says, his voice slow and emotionless. “I made him beautiful.”

“Kid, back off him,” Gil says firmly, but Matty lunges suddenly, grabbing Malcolm by the throat and spinning him so that Malcolm is between him and the aim of three raised guns.

Something sharp presses against Malcolm’s neck.

Fuck, not again, Malcolm thinks. He can’t get stabbed twice in as many months.

“You don’t want to kill me, Matty,” Malcolm rasps, just about able to catch his breath. “I liked your work.”

“I’m not going to prison!”

“Drop your weapon!” Gil shouts, lifting his gun higher.

Malcolm knows they don’t have a clean shot or they would have fired by now. He’s going to have to try to get out of Matty’s choke hold without getting himself killed in the process. If he slams his head back, catches Matty right, he could break his nose.

“You’ve ruined everything,” Matty says quietly, just so that Malcolm can hear, and then he jerks his hand from Malcolm’s neck, slamming the blade into his shoulder and shoving him forward.

Malcolm screams, landing heavily in his hands and knees. He topples forward, his face slamming against the stage.

After that it’s a blur of footsteps, shouting, and one gunshot making Malcolm’s ears ring. He pushes himself up into a sit, holding his shoulder and gritting his teeth at the pain. His fingers are slick with blood, but from what he can tell the wound is small and not too deep. It could have been worse.

“Hey, get the medics up here!” Gil’s voice rumbles around the auditorium, and then he’s hauling Malcolm to his feet. “Damn it, kid. When are you going to stop putting yourself in the firing line, huh?”

“I’ve been stabbed, not shot,” Malcolm jokes, hissing. He looks back at the stage as Gil guides him out, still calling out for a medic. Malcolm sees Matty lying in a spreading pool of blood, the set behind him covered in it. Frank Redfern is sitting on a chair, pale and stunned, JT and Dani next to him taking a statement.

“What happened?”

“He didn’t drop his weapon. Started putting it to his own throat, spouting things about failing destiny, then he went for you again.”

Malcolm leans on Gil heavily, blood draining from his face as shock kicks in. He has to force himself not to think about the basement, and Watkins, the crunch of his bones under the hammer. He’s been lying about talking to his therapist about it, and now he’s thinking that decision wasn’t his greatest.

He listens absently to Gil bark at the medics still by their vehicle, and soon enough he’s being poked and prodded and shuffled into the back of the ambulance.

Theres a commotion behind them and Gil turns, hands on his hips.

“Damn press. Get him patched up. Kid, I’ve got to go make sure those cameras don’t get in here. I’ll be right back.”

Malcolm nods, watching Gil and some uniformed cops trying to get a swarm of bystanders and people with cameras from getting into the theatre. He doubts it’ll be long before he sees his sister around somewhere.

“This is going to need stitches,” one of the medics says, taking malcolms jacket off and opening his shirt. “We’ll give you something for the pain and then go...”

“No.” Malcolm shakes his head. “No painkillers. You can stitch me up here.”

“That’s not...” the medic looks confused. “Are you refusing treatment?”

“No, I’m refusing to have painkillers and I’m refusing to go to hospital. Are you refusing to stitch my stab wound... Adrian?”

Adrian looks down at his name badge then back at Malcolm. He sighs and picks up a med kit.

“No, I’m not refusing. If you don’t want to take painkillers then at least a mild anesthetic?”

Malcolm nods and looks away, trembling slightly as a needle pierces his skin. 

Inhaling slowly, Malcolm thinks about the breath travelling down his throat and into his lungs, spreading through him, pure. He wonders about the condition it leaves him in.

There are camera crews everywhere now, their lenses on the front of the theatre, and no doubt on the ambulance where he’s sitting. Malcolm knows that Martin will see this and the thought makes his pulse speed up.

“Ok, you’re done. Try not to do anything strenuous while it heals.”

Malcolm nods and gets out of the ambulance, making his way over to Gil and Dr Tanaka who smiles like she’s just seen a puppy.

“Malcolm! Mr Bright, sorry... oh, you’re hurt. Are you ok?”

“I’m fine, I promise. Just a scratch.”

“I’m so relieved! Um, right, I’ll just head inside and stop talking.”

Tanaka leaves and Gil chuckles, putting his hand on Malcolm's un-injured shoulder.

“Are you really ok?”

“I’ll live.”

“We need to have a talk after we get back to the station. Safety protocols and health and safety training. Again.”

Malcolm groans and Gil shakes his head, turning his back on the cameras.

“Come on, we need to question Frank Redfern and wrap this case up. Let’s get you out of the spotlight.” Gil scoffs.

“What?”

“Oh, I was just thinking about The Surgeon and the last time I saw him.”

Malcolm frowns. Gil saw his dad?

“When did you see him?”

Martin didn’t say anything about it when they were together, though they were a little more focused on each other at the time.

“It was after you were kidnapped. I thought stupidly that he’d help.”

“What... what did he say?”

Gil sighs. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Tell me.” Malcolms words sound bitter, bordering on angry, but he gathers himself and swallows down his irritation. “I just want to know what happened.”

“He assumed you were already dead. There wasn’t any fight in him to try to find you... he just sort of spaced out and then he, uh, he collapsed.”

“Collapsed?” Malcolms hands ball into fists at his side and he feels the pull of his stitches biting into his skin.

“They said it was a panic attack, maybe because he’d been in solitary.”

”Oh... right.”

”Don’t worry about it, Malcolm. He might have given up on you, but I won’t.”

”Yeah...”

Martin didn’t give up on him. Gil doesn’t see. Of course he doesn’t.

But Malcolm does.

Martin thought that he was dead and so he gave up on himself, like there was nothing left to live for. His boy was gone so his mind and body gave up.

It proved something vital to Malcolm, something that had always been there at the back of his mind. Was Martin Whitly capable of love. He was a master at pretending, had played the role of loving husband and father to perfection for years. But he was also a manipulative serial killer. Malcolm wanted to trust his heart, but his head had always wondered.

Now Malcolm knew for sure.

Martin Whitly loves him.

***

“You know, technically I haven’t had my phone time because I’ve not spoken to anyone on the phone.”

Martin implores David with his eyes, but other than financially, Martin seems to hold little sway over his prison guard.

“Fine, I’ll try again later.” Martin slams the receiver down hard and walks to his chair, kicking the leg with the toe of his shoe. “He’ll have forgotten to charge it. Or maybe he left it at home, that’s it.”

Martin rubs his beard and smiles, looking at David again, but getting no agreement from the man. Not that he needs it anyway. Martin doesn’t doubt Malcolm. Not after their relationship has developed so wonderfully.

“My boy won’t cut me out.” Martin wags his finger at David, who just sits down and picks up a battered trashy novel, ignoring Martin completely.

Nostrils flaring, Martin sits down, picking up his pencil and taking a blank sheet of paper from the pile. His eyes close and he can see the lines that he needs, the soft curves, delicate perfection.

Resting one elbow on the desk, Martin leans his forehead against his hand and starts to draw. Malcolm emerges like he always does, like he was hidden in the fibres of the paper just waiting for Martin to pull him out. This time it’s a portrait, in profile, grey lines blending from soft to hard to pick out Malcolm’s features.

He’s imagined Malcolm like this many times, screaming silently in his mind, but this time the pleasure is nearly tangible. Unfortunately, Martin had been behind Malcolm when he’d made him come, but their other activities had given Martin a lot of material to use to create images of his son.

His mouth is open, eyes creased at the edges, and his neck is strained. There’s no mistaking the pleasure he’s frozen in though.

“My boy,” Martin says, for the moment choosing to forget that his efforts to call Malcolm have been failures.

The drawing takes Martin’s attention for well over an hour, but when he sits back to admire the piece, opening and closing his hand with a hiss of pain, he sees something that could almost jump off the page.

“I think I deserve some television, David.”

Martin swings just chair around to face the television set and David lifts the remote, switching it on.

“The news will do for now.” And if Malcolm’s on a case Martin might spot him. The thought sends a delicious thrill down his spine.

A red bar across the bottom of the screen gets Martin’s attention.

**Breaking News: Suspect Shot Dead At Shubert Theatre**

Martin pulls his chair closer, crossing his fingers and laying them over his stomach.

“Ooh, what is this?”

Some jumpy footage is being played of inside the theatre. A recording off a phone, Martin guesses from the terrible quality. Intrigued, Martin leans forward in his chair, waiting for the camera to stop moving for long enough to see what’s going on.

There’s talking in the distance.

“Is that Malcolm?”

“Sounds like him.” David says in a bored tone.

“Of course I know it is.” Martin tuts, but not bothering to glare at the guard. No, he’s far too busy watching Malcolm approaching what he can reasonably assume is the suspected murderer on the stage in front of him.

The scene cuts not long after Malcolm is grabbed by the suspect, going back to none other than Ainsley Whitly reporting for her news station.

“No, no, no! Don’t stop it there. Where is he?”

_“Police profiler Malcolm Bright was injured during the scuffle with the suspect of at least one brutal murder.”_

Martin sighs with relief then rolls his eyes. “Don’t use the word scuffle, Ainsley. It sounds like kids at recess.”

The news then cuts to the outside of the theatre, of the suspects body being wheeled out, and just in the corner of the screen is Malcolm, blood soaked through his shirt from where he was presumably stabbed.

Martin smiles proudly. That is, until he watches detective Arroyo put his arm around Malcolm, pulling him in close and smiling at him fondly.

“Of course.” Martin’s smile drops. Arroyo, the would be surrogate father, always sniffing around for Malcolm’s attention. Oh, how much Martin wishes that he’d been able to give that irritating detective just one sip of that tea. With dose he put in it would have been enough.

Martin stands, the chair spinning at the force, rolling all the way back to his desk. David stands, but Martin puts his hands up, a fake smile on his lips.

“No need, no need...”

He looks back at the television, Ainsley is saying something about the killer, but Martin’s attention is on none other than Jessica, standing at the cordoned off perimeter and talking to detective Arroyo.

“You just want to be me don’t you, Gil.” Martin says the mans name like it’s bitter on his tongue.

Arroyo hugs Jessica and the report ends, the weather taking its place on the screen. Martin has no feeling about Arroyo making a move on Jessica. She was the perfect picture frame wife, great at functions and to provide him with children. Their life together was of mutual benefit.

Malcolm though. That’s different.

“He still thinks he can take my boy from me.”

Martin starts to pace, the image of Gil putting his hands on Malcolm running through his head over and over.

“He doesn’t know Malcolm. He thinks he does, but...” Martin shakes his head. “He holds him back, doesn’t give him what he needs.”

Stopping by his chair, Martin puts his hands on the top of the back rest, squeezing the wood hard.

“He can’t give him what he needs. He can’t...”

“Settle down.” David’s voice is steady and deep. If Martin wasn’t a serial killer he’d be afraid of its quiet menace.

“He’s mine. Mine!” Picking up the chair Martin swings it and throws it against the far wall. It misses the television by inches, hitting the concrete, the wood splitting with a satisfying crack.

David has pressed the alarm and is across the red line in seconds.

“No, no... get off me, damn it!” Martin yells, twisting in the guards grip, but David is an immovable force. “This is what he wants. Keeping my boy from me!”

The door to the cell opens and four staff come in to help David to subdue Martin. 

”He wants my boy! Wants my... He wants...” 

Martin’s eyes roll as the sedative takes hold.

***

By the time he’d gotten out of the precinct and gone home to change his bloodied clothes, it was already late afternoon. Not enough time, but there never is.

The staff are getting used to Malcolm’s visits now, barely looking at his identification and chatting with him until he’s cleared. The whispers about him being The Surgeon’s estranged son have pretty much stopped too.

Today though, there is a different kind of whispering, and everyone he passes gives him a strange look. Malcolm makes his way to the desk to sign in, surprised to see his fathers guard talking to a doctor.

Something is wrong. Malcolm can feel it.

“What’s going on? Why aren’t you with my... Dr Whitly?” Malcolm knows David’s shift patterns, and he should be with him.

“Mr Bright?” The doctor nods to herself, answering her own question with the motion. “I’m Dr Maitlen. Could you come with me please?”

Malcolm’s heart rate spikes, dread clawing at him, his feet like lead. He looks at David again but the guard gives nothing away.

“Is he... Dr Whitly, is he alright?”

The doctor sighs, realising that Malcolm isn’t going with her somewhere private.

“He had another episode today and has been transferred to solitary.”

Malcolm’s hand trembles at his side.

“What kind of episode?”

“He became angry and aggressive, and because it’s the second time in a three month period it was mandatory to put him into solitary. Depending on his co-operation...”

“Co-operation? This is a hospital, doctor. My father is an unstable serial killer and you’re expecting co-operation?”

“Perhaps I used the wrong word,” she says. “But in order for Dr Whitly to continue with the privileges that he has in this institute he has to show that he isn’t a threat to himself or my staff. Until recently he has been, for lack of a better phrase, an exemplary patient.”

Malcolm smiles humourlessly, looking away from her. Until recently, she said. Until Malcolm came back into his life, she meant.

“What was he doing before he had this episode?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” dr Maitlen says. “He was drawing, and then he watched television.”

That has to be it. He’d seen Malcolm injured on tv and had another panic attack.

“Uh, can I see him?” Malcolm taps his foot anxiously. It feels like the doctor has X-ray vision when she looks at him, studying him, somehow knowing what he has in his pockets. The letter and memory stick snug together.

“I’m afraid not, Mr Bright. Solitary confinement prohibits anyone from visiting a patient, with no exceptions. You know that already.”

“It’s important.” Malcolm sounds weak to his own ears, his plea pathetic.

“I’m sorry. I’ll ask Dr Whitly if he wants to see anyone after he’s done the seven days in solitary.”

Seven days. Malcolm couldn’t have heard that right.

”Seven days? That seems excessive.”

“It’s standard to increase the length of confinement,” Doctor Maitlen says, noticing Malcolm's confusion.

Malcolm scrubs a hand over his eyes and shakes his head. He wants to show them his own violent outburst, maybe they’ll tie him up and take him to his father... Malcolm just wants to see his father.

“Let me know as soon as he’s released.” Malcolm says, not waiting for a reply.

Turning away, Malcolm feels a mixture of emotions burning in his gut. His head spins, the corridor stretching and stretching in front of him until it becomes endless. He pushes through the doors, keeps walking, keeps breathing even though his heart is threatening to explode in his chest.

As he passes the reception desk, Malcolm hears his fathers name, coming from where two nurses are standing just outside of the building, sharing a cigarette.

Opening the door a crack, Malcolm listens.

“I’ve seen the recording of it, I’m telling you, he totally flips.”

The second nurse shivers over dramatically.

“He gives me the fucking creeps.”

“He was watching his wife on the news, and you’ll never guess, he saw her hugging a cop. The one that raised his son, you know.”

“Jesus, so he threw a fit because he was jealous. Amy, it’s times like these I’m extra glad I’m a lesbian.”

The first nurse laughs.

“Anyway, he’s away from us for a few days. He’s stuck with his own thoughts about his wife banging the cop who got him sent here.”

They laugh and Malcolm opens the door, startling them enough for one of them to swear. He doesn’t see who, walking blindly past them and down the long driveway leading down to the sidewalk.

“So stupid,” Malcom mutters. Something hysterical, manic even, bubbles under his skin. All the blood drains from his face, and he has to hold onto the fence to keep from stumbling into the road.

It never crossed his mind that Martin still loved his mother, still wanted her. She would never be with Martin again, so Malcolm was the next best thing?

Guilt floods his senses, making him want to throw up. Malcolm’s whole body shakes but he has to get home, has to take whatever he can to numb this pain.

He still wants Jessica. Martin still wants her. Loves her. He’s in solitary because he saw her with Gil and he couldn’t stand it.

Holding his hand out, Malcolm hails a taxi. He doesn’t trust his feet not to get himself run over trying to make it home.

“Forget it, I’m not driving no junkies,” the taxi driver says when Malcolm crawls onto the backseat. “Get out.”

“Im not a junkie... I’m just...” Malcolm knows he’s going to get kicked out anyway if he says he’s sick or something. “I had some bad news, ok? It was a lot to deal with and I’m... please, I just need to get home. I can pay.”

He digs in his wallet and pulls out all the bills he has. The taxi drivers eyes widen and he reaches out, only taking two bills from Malcolms hand.

“Where to?”

Malcolm tells him the address and falls back against the seat, closing his eyes so tight that white dots float in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m desperate to have them together again! Stay tuuuuuned!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm struggles to cope after Martin’s confinement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing is hard!

Malcolm wakes up just after six in the morning. 

He hadn’t slept, just passed out. Overmedicating will do that to you. 

Malcolm snorts and spits his mouth guard out, fumbling with his restraints and rolling out of bed. The room bounces. Or maybe it’s just his eyes. Could be both. 

Blinking rapidly, Malcolm aims for the kitchen sink. It feels very far away, but literally putting one foot in front of the other, toe to heel repeat, Malcolm eventually makes it.

“If there was anything in here I’d probably throw up.” Malcolm prods his stomach. Yesterday’s breakfast is long since digested.

Bending at the waist and turning his head, Malcolm drinks from the faucet, drenching his face in the process. His throat is scratchy and dry, and no matter how much water he gulps down it doesn’t feel any better.

On the kitchen counter, his meds are scattered, looking weirdly like candy. He doesn’t remember pouring them all out. Doesn’t remember much after he got home last night actually.

“Better put these away, sunshine,” Malcolm says to his bird, pulling the empty containers towards him and then slowly picking up the pills one by one, holding them up and squinting at it before putting it in a pot. “All look the same.”

There’s an envelope on the counter too, and a memory stick, and somewhere in Malcolm’s foggy mind it comes back. Pain. Enormous pain. His hands falter, jerking forwards and sending his medications across and off the table, clattering onto the tile floor.

“Fuck...” 

Malcolm shrugs and steps on the pills as he heads back to his bed. His phone is poking out from under his pillow, and for some reason he switches it on, knowing full well that he’s going to be bombarded with messages. 

Nine missed called, four voicemails, and about a dozen unread texts are waiting for him. His mother, Ainsley, Gil, even one from Dani. Malcolm almost starts to reply, but he doesn’t have the energy to string a sentence together and make it look genuine. 

Besides, the voice in the back of Malcolm’s head, HIS voice, reminds him that no matter how hard he tries to block it out, he can’t deny that it’s only one name he wants to see on his phone screen.

But of course, that isn’t what Malcolm gets. 

Throwing his phone to the end of the bed, Malcom reaches for the bottle of chloraphorm and spills a few drops onto his pillow. 

Closing his eyes, he inhales it’s fumes, sinking down onto the bed and letting the chemical wind itself into his consciousness, tearing it to shreds. He welcomes it, not caring if the drug unearths hidden memories. At least he’ll be with him there.

***

Zen is just as pretentious as the name suggests. Ainsley chose the restaurant, not accepting Malcolm’s excuses for why he couldn’t meet her, and in the end Malcolm figured it would be easier to get it out of the way than to keep trying to avoid her.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the drama for my job, but do you really have to keep getting hurt?”

Malcolm pushes a sun-dried tomato around his plate. 

“How’s your shoulder?” She adds.

“It’s fine. It hurts, but it could have been worse.”

Ainsley shakes her head and eats some salad. The waiter brings over a bottle of wine and pours them each a glass. Malcolm might not be as high as yesterday, but whatever’s left in his system wouldn’t mix well with alcohol. He sticks to water.

“So, what are you up to now?”

“Nothing, not until there’s another murder. I might need to find a hobby.”

Ainsley smiles. “Murder is your hobby. The business of murder. Not actually you killing... okkk this conversation is becoming too much about death.”

“It’s in our genes, I guess.” Malcolm says, quietly. He’s relieved when Ainsley doesn’t pick up on it.

“Let’s change the subject.”

Malcolm nods and picks at his food while Ainsley chats away, used to Malcolm being the quieter of the two. He wonders what it’s like for her, to be relatively normal. Sure, she’s not completely affected by their family, but she’s not messed up in the way Malcolm is. If she were to move away, start a life somewhere no one knew her, Malcolm is sure no demons would follow her.

“...and that’s why I wanted to go back. Do you know why his visitor list is closed?”

Malcolm blinks, realising his mind had wandered and he’d missed most of what Ainsley had been saying. 

“Sorry, say that again.”

“Malcolm...” Ainsley sighs, so like their mom it’s scary. “Dad, his visitor list is closed, I tried to set up an appointment.”

“Why? What for?”

“Seriously? There’s still a story there. So much he’s keeping to himself that maybe I could get out of him.”

Malcolm scoffs. Of course it’s about a story. When isn’t it with his sister.

“Ains, it’s not a good idea.”

“Right, so it’s ok for you and not me?”

“No, that’s not... neither of us should see him.”

Aimsley lifts a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.   
  


“You know something, don’t you?”

Malcolm looks down at his plate.

“Something happened at the hospital and now he’s in solitary. Gil told me,” Malcolm adds the lie because he doesn’t trust himself to keep the part about him going to Claremont to himself. 

Rubbing his temples, Malcom feels a headache stabbing behind his eyes. He can’t think about his father, he can’t, and he hadn’t thought that Ainsley would bring up the subject when he agreed to meet with her.

“He won’t be in solitary forever,” Ainsley says.

Malcolm opens his mouth, about to try to persuade her not to do it, beg her maybe, but his eye catches movement to his right.

“I’m offended. Having lunch and not inviting me.” Jessica sounds amused, but there’s always a level of seriousness to her tone that makes you question if she’s really joking or not.

“Mom, it was a last minute thing, right bro?” Ainsley looks at Malcolm for backup.

“Right. Last minute.”

“More last minute than the unanswered calls from your mother?” Jessica purses her lips then gets the waiters attention with a wave of her hand before sitting down. “Now I’m here I might as well join you.”

“Why are you here?” Ainsley asks. 

Malcolm squirms in his seat. He’s too hot, uncomfortably so, a guilty flush rising on his cheeks. 

“Ainsley, my love, you’re so brutally blunt sometimes. And very suspicious. I was here to pick up some wine and happened to see my darling children.”

She orders food and a glass of champagne, clicking a message on her phone before turning her attention back to the two of them.

“Is your shoulder healing?”

Malcolm nods.

“Oh good. So, what were you both talking about?”

“Real estate,” Malcolm says quickly, giving Ainsley a look. She doesn’t look happy, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Oh, are you thinking of moving?”

Malcolm shrugs. “No, maybe, I was just going to look around.”

“You should have come to me, you know I have all the best contacts.” Jessica smiles. “I’ll ask Roger Cramer to send me some suitable property options and we can meet up and go over them.”

“Uh, yeah sure, but like I say it was only an idea.”

“Or, you know we can just have the loft completely remodelled. A fresh new look will feel like a move, and now you’re doing much better I think it’ll be good for you.”

Malcolm frowns. 

“Better?”

“Now all of that business involving your father is finally over.” Jessica sighs in relief. “Our relatively normallives can resume once again.”

“We’re not even close to normal, mom,” Ainsley says.

“Right, that’s why I said relatively. Malcolm, why aren’t you eating?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re not hungry at a five star restaurant? Actually, you are looking unusually flushed.” 

Jessica reaches out to touch Malcolm’s forehead, but he pushes his chair back, avoiding her hand before it settles on his forehead. He can’t cope with any contact from his mother, not when all he can think about is her touching his father.

“Malcolm, what is going on with you?” Jessica sounds annoyed rather than concerned. A tone Malcolm knows well.

“What’s going on with me? Oh, nothing...” Malcolm stands up, sending his cutlery clattering to the floor. The people surrounding them stop talking to see what’s happening.

“You’re causing a scene. Sit down.” Jessica smiles at the onlookers, attempting damage control. “Don’t you think I have to deal with people staring at me enough without you adding to it?”

Malcolm sighs, smiling in disbelief at the ridiculousness of it all. He needs to leave before he say something he really regrets.

He takes out his wallet and puts enough to pay for all of them down on the table. 

“At least finish your lunch,” Ainsley says, but she’s looking around the restaurant too, wanting Malcolm to sit down and be quiet. 

“I have things to do.” 

His chair scrapes loudly as he shoves it under the table. He’ll text Ainsley later to apologise, but he can’t grit his teeth and bare it, not today, not when his nerves are already raw. 

He aches inside, his feet taking him in the direction of Claremont for three blocks before he realises where he’s going. Reluctantly Malcolm goes back in the opposite direction, taking a different street so that he doesn’t have to pass Zen to see his mother and sister talking about him through the glass.

It feels like forever until he gets home, each step up to the loft apartment a struggle. Malcolm doesn’t use the chloroform, and takes only the meds he needs, but he’s tempted. He’s afraid of what he might see when he closes his eyes. Even worse, he’s afraid that if he does manage to sleep, he’ll dream.

“Don’t dream, don’t dream,” Malcolm repeats as he straps himself to the bed. 

***

“Do you want Daddy to take care of you?”

Malcolm nods and starts to undress.

“I’m always here, you know.” Martin slowly runs his finger through Malcolm’s hair to his temple, tapping there gently. “Always with you, my boy.“

“I know.” 

Malcolm’s jacket hits the floor, his tie next, and each button that slides free as he opens his shirt makes the heavy weight pushing down on his shoulders feel lighter.

Martin circles him like prey, stroking Malcolm’s ass through his slacks.

The shirt falls into the pile of clothes at Malcolm’s feet and he shivers as the cool air touches his skin.

“You’ve always been so sensitive,” Martin says, his hands moving up Malcolm’s sides from behind, toying with his hardened nipples. Martin’s erection brushes against Malcolm’s ass.

“Please... please, Daddy.”

Martin hums, a low rumble at Malcolm’s ear.

_“_ I want you to kiss me, _”_ he says, hand now at Malcolm’s throat, moving his head so that it’s leaning against Martin’s shoulder.

Malcolm nods, eagerly.

_ “ _ Get on your knees. _ ” _

Martin lets go of Malcolm’s neck and smiles as his son immediately turns and drops to the floor. Malcolm nuzzles the bulge of his fathers cock, breathing in through his nose. Leaning back, Malcolm looks up through his lashes, smiling before he presses his lips to the fabric of Martin’s hospital pants. 

He kisses and mouths the length of Martin’s cock, moaning in pleasure, wetting the slacks until they’re dark with his saliva.

“Oh, yes...” Martin strokes Malcolm’s hair, his unbound hands wandering wherever he wants. “My sweet boy, look at you...”

Malcolm smiles at how wrecked his father sounds. He touches his own nipples, squeezing and pinching while continuing to mouth at Martin’s crotch.

Martin takes hold of Malcolm’s chin, getting him to look up. He rubs his thumb over Malcolm’s red lips.

“Come to the bed.”

Malcolm stands, noticing that the chain that’s usually around his fathers waist is missing. He doesn’t bother to question it. He doesn’t care. 

All he does care about is crawling into the bed between Martins legs, his hands on his father’s raised knees. He can’t help sliding his palms down to Martin’s thighs, rubbing them slowly.

“I learn more and more things about you all the time, my boy. Every single thing you do tells me endless, fascinating things.”

Malcolm bites his bottom lip, his eyes drawn again to the bulge between his fathers legs. 

“You’re mouth is watering for it, isn’t it.” Martin chuckles. 

“I want to know what you taste like.” Malcolm swallows, his heart pounding. 

“Don’t be shy, son. Take what you want.”

Malcolm makes a choked off sound, overwhelmed with lust and excitement. Martin, father... daddy, spread out for him, craving him, and letting Malcom do what he pleases. 

He can’t remember opening Martin’spants, but when he looks back down, he can see a grey trail of hair leading to white underwear. There’s something deeply intimate about seeing his fathers pubic hair, and Malcolm blushes, embarrassed at how arousing it is.

“So beautiful when you blush.” 

Martin puts his hand on top of Malcolm’s, pushing it onto his balls. Malcolm massages them through the fabric of the underwear.

“Can I?”

Martin puts both hands flat on the bed, lifting his ass enough so that Malcolm can pull the underwear down, finally releasing martins cock.

Malcolm wastes no more time. Back bent, he takes hold of Martin’s length and brings it to his lips, licking the head before sucking it into his mouth. It’s a strange sensation, this intrusive weight on his tongue, but it’s like something has been ripped open inside his chest and the addiction he has for his father has gone beyond anything he’s ever known before.

He moans as he sinks down, able to take his father all the way, even though he’s sure he’s never done anything like this before. He doesn’t gag when the head touches the back of his throat, he just swallows around him, rewarded with Martin keening above him.

“You’re even better than I imagined. And I imagined this more than you know,” Martin pants, squirming when Malcolm slides his lips up and down, moaning at the taste of precome.

Malcolms cock is straining through his suit pants, so he reaches down between his legs to quickly unzip, reaching in to pull himself out for some relief.

“My good boy. Don’t go slow...”

Malcolm nods slightly, picking up the pace, trying to get his father deeper each time. Malcolm doesn’t want anything else in his mouth, not even breath. He lifts one hand from Martin’s hip, pushing up the white shirt to stroke his stomach. It’s soft and warm, comforting. Malcolm is annoyed for a moment that they’re both not completely naked, but there will be more times. It’s not just his mouth that Malcolm craves to be filled.

The thought of Martin fucking him makes Malcolm shudder with pleasure, his cock pulsing responsively. He wonders if Martin would let him do the same? What would fucking his father feel like? 

Letting go of his own cock, Malcolm pushes two fingers against Martin’s ass, toying with the idea of touching him more, but unsure if he can.

“You can do anything, my boy,” Martin says, as though he read his mind. 

Malcolm lets Martin slip from his mouth, eyes blurry and unfocused. He blinks a few times, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. 

Martin widens his legs, cupping his balls and pulling them up to give Malcolm more room.

“Fuck...” Malcolm breathes.

“I won’t last long enough for that. Make me come.”

Malcolm groans, pained and desperate. He sucks both fingers, coating them with saliva, knowing it’s not enough for what he wants. 

“Be a good boy,” Martin continues, the edge of pleading in his voice. 

Scooting further up the bed, Malcolm moves his fathers hand, holding his erection up and sinking down on it again, mouth stretched wide. His wet fingers circle martins hole, the skin so hot, and he feels Martin tremble.

“That’s it, just like that... so good. Good boy.”

Malcolm sucks Martin’s cock with increasing determination, wanting him to come down his throat. His own cock is throbbing between his legs, but his own release is far from his priorities.

Martin rolls his hips gently, fucking up into Malcolm’s mouth and grinding against his fingers. He’s sweating, disheveled, and coming apart.

“Oh, yes... Malcolm... your mouth...”

Malcolm’s face heats up with a new flush of arousal, his jaw aching. He wants to feel it all, to swallow his fathers release, to know what he sounds like when he comes.

The tips of his fingers go deeper into Martin’s ass, just breaching, but it has his fathers thighs shaking, a gasp of breath trapped behind gritted teeth.

“Malcolm... Malcolm... ahh...”

Martin stills when his orgasm hits, his body caught in that moment of pure bliss. Malcolm keeps sucking, stroking the base of martins cock, only pulling away when he comes himself unexpectedly and untouched. Come spills from the corner of Malcolm’s mouth when he takes a deep breath, feeling like he’s been starved of oxygen. He touches himself to extend his own pleasure, only to find his father sitting up and taking over.

Martin’s hand is so big, covering Malcolm’s and stroking him as the aftershocks.

“So good, oh my boy, you couldn’t help yourself, could you? You enjoyed it so much.”

Martin kisses Malcolm's forehead, gathers him up, shifting on the bed so that Malcolm is lying on top of him. Malcolm feels exhausted and totally spent, sinking into his fathers warmth like it’s the only place in the world he’s safe.

“I love you so much,” Martin says, holding Malcolm tight. “You’re all mine.”

“Dad...”

“Shhhh...”

“Daddy...”

Malcolm jerks awake, gasping, his pillow and sheets wet with sweat and...

“Fuck.” Malcolm groans, spitting his mouth guard out and undoing the shackles. He throws the sheets tangled around his legs off the bed, cringing at the sticky mess in his boxers. 

The dream is still so vivid, enough that his skin is covered in goosebumps. He was in his fathers arms only a moment ago, only he wasn’t. It was just a dream. 

Pulling his legs up, Malcolm wraps his arms around them, propping his chin on the top of his knees. 

“Breathe.”

He inhales slowly, holds it, then let’s it out. Malcolm repeats it, over and over, willing his body to calm down even if his mind refuses. 

It had felt so real. Malcolm wishes it was real.

Despite his disappointment, he knows now that he doesn’t care if his feelings aren’t shared by Martin. He can’t stop what they’ve started now. Malcolm will go back to him and take what he can get. There isn’t anyone else that Malcolm can be with, not when their Pandora’s box has been well and truly exploded. 

In four days, his father will be out of solitary confinement and then... then, Malcolm will go to Claremont and accept his place.

***

_ ’Did you sleep at all last night?’ _

Malcolm’s hand pauses midway towards his mouth, the pill clenched between his fingers.

“You’re not real. You’re in Claremont hospital.”

‘ _Pfft, semantics_.’ Martins eyes twinkle and he pats the empty space on the couch beside him. ‘ _Come and sit. We can talk_.’

Malcolm sighs, tosses the pill back and picks up an affirmation.

“I have the power to create change.”

_ ‘Of course you do, my boy. You can do anything. I always taught you that.’ _

Malcolm walks over to the couch where the hallucination of his father sits. He can’t remember if he’s high, or if he’s forgotten to taken his meds and now his mind is more fucked up than usual, but he hasn’t hallucinated since his ten year old self sat in the same place as Martin is now.

‘ _You’re taking my solitary confinement hard, aren’t you. I’m flattered, I really am_.’

Malcolm sits, longing to touch Martin in some way... hug him, kiss him, anything, but he’s scared if he does that the illusion will break.

‘ _We’ll be together again soon._ ’ Martin smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Malcolm notices that he’s wearing his red cardigan, the one that’s stuck in his mind forever from when he was a child. The white hospital clothes are underneath them though, and Martin looks as he does now, greyer, softer in parts, but magnetically handsome all the same.

‘ _So, what shall we talk about?_ ’ Martin pats his thighs. 

“I don’t want to talk,” Malcolm replies, not able to ask any of the million questions burning inside his brain.

‘ _Alright, we don’t have to_ ,’ Martin says softly. ‘ _Ooh, would you like me to read to you? That was one of your favourite things.’_

Malcolm thinks, pictures himself cuddled up to his dad while that soothing yet expressive voice took him to other worlds. 

‘ _Go and choose a book_.’

Malcolm’s head is pounding, and the last thing he wants to do is go and find a book, but he does it anyway. Having Martin close, even a figment of his imagination, is better than spending another day alone. 

Looking over the bookcase, Malcolm runs a finger over the spines of his books. Some of the titles make him smile sadly. He’d kept the books to remind him of the things his father used to do simply because he loved Malcolm. Now he’s questioning if Martin had ever been capable of love at all.

“How about ‘The Scarlett Letter’?” 

‘ _Hm, an interesting choice_ ,’ Martin replies, never taking his eyes off Malcolm. “‘ _Sin and punishment. It’s been a long time since you read this one_.’

“You only know that because you’re part of my brain,” Malcolm sighs.

_‘Just shows how well we know each other, my boy. Soul deep_.’

Malcolm takes the book and holds it to his chest, putting a barrier between the man he sees on the couch and his rapidly beating heart. 

“I thought that was true,” Malcolm says. It’s futile trying to talk to his own projection of his father, but Malcolm isn’t friends with rationality.

‘ _What do you mean_?’

Martin tilts his head and pats the couch again, so inviting. Malcolm vividly remembers thinking as a child that it wouldn’t have been hard for his father to gain his victims trust. He’s the safest man in the world. They’d just go to him.

“Just that... 

The sound of a key in the lock and his door opening startles Malcolm enough that he drops the book on the floor with a loud bang. 

Sunshine chirps, distressed.

“Sorry, shh, it’s ok.” Malcolm goes to her cage, talking gently.

“That bird gets more attention from you than I do these days.” Jessica strides in with what looks like two designer bags in her hands.

“Hello, mother.” 

Malcolm expects Martin to have vanished, but when he turns around, his father is still sitting on the couch. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you today. Didn’t you have the meeting with the...”

“I have a meeting later, yes.” Jessica swings the bags onto the table and puts her hands on her hips. “You look dreadful.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm says, bending down to pick up the book.

“Come here.”

Malcolm does what she asks, mainly because he hasn’t got the energy to put up any resistance. He lost that ability many years ago, learning quickly that Jessica is easier to deal with when she’s getting her own way.

When Malcolm is in reach, Jessica puts both of her hands on his cheeks. 

“Your temperature isn’t high so you’re not sick. This is all because of that infuriating man. He’s always had his hooks in you and no matter what I do I can’t pry him away from you.”

“I’m just tired that’s all...”

“That line won’t work on me,” Jessica interrupts. 

‘ _Tell her it’s because you’re overdosing on your meds,_ ’ Martin adds, unhelpfully.

“What’s in the bags?” Malcolm ignores his father, moving around his mother so that his back is to him.

“Some new clothes for when you go back to work. I know, I know, I still hate that you’re determined to go back to solving grisly murders, but at least I can help you look good while you do it. And don’t worry, none of the suits are white.”

‘ _Your mother does have great taste in clothes_ ,’ Martin says, so close to Malcolm’s ear that he inhales sharply, covering with a cough.

“Hmm, maybe you do need a Doctor,” Jessica muses, mostly to herself, busy getting the expensive looking suits from the bags.

‘ _Little does she know_ ,’ Martin chuckles.

“Shut up,” Malcolm mutters under his breath.

Luckily, Jessica doesn’t hear him.

“Sadly, I cant stay to see you try these on or we could have had a little catwalk show.”

‘ _She always liked me trying on clothes for her_ ,’ Martin says.

Malcom feels a wave of guilt at the thought, picturing his mother doing martins tie, adjusting his shirt collar, smoothing his lapels with her hands. The guilt comes first, then the jealousy... 

“The Whitly men always do look their best in something sharp and tailored.” Jessica’s eyes drift off like she’s remembering something. 

Malcolm has seen photographs of his parents, dressed up for some function or gala, and he knows just how good Martin looks in a tux. They were a couple envied by their friends.

“Anyway, there’s a good delivery coming later today and...” Jessica looks around the apartment, nose wrinkled. “I’ll get someone in to clean up in here.”

“Mother, there’s no need really, I was going to...”

“Going to what? Malcolm, you can barely stand up right now.” Jessica sighs and puts her hands on his arms. “I’m worried about you. That outburst yesterday wasn’t like the Malcolm I know. You’re being ground down and you won’t let me help in the way I want to. Quitting your job and disowning your father.”

Malcolm swallows, Martin’s presence at his back.

“But I can help in other ways if you’ll let me.”

Jessica touches Malcolm’s cheek and he nods. 

“Keeping you healthy and alive and looking fantastic.”

Malcolm laughs softly. 

“There, that’s better. It’s nice seeing you smile.”

‘ _You do have a beautiful smile, my boy_ ,’ Martin says, making Malcolm shiver. 

Malcolm remains where he is while his mother continues to fuss around the apartment, chatting away and scolding him for the mess he’s been living in. He hugs the book to him, not daring to turn around to see his fathers smile, sure that he can feel martins breath on the back of his neck.

His meds are still in a mess on the table, mixed up, bottles either too full or too empty, and Malcolm hopes that his mother doesn’t see the chloroform bottle by his bed.

There are four days left until Martin is released. Four days. Malcolm doesn’t know how he’s going to get through them, and then he has to figure out how to get through seeing him again. 

‘ _One day at a time, Malcolm_ ,’ Martin says. ‘ _One day at a time_.’


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martins final days in solitary give him time to think, and then... a reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooh boy, this chapter has taken so long, sorry about that! But here it is! Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Soooo if you haven’t already seen it, please have a look at the beautiful art my dear friend merakieros did for this fic! It’s linked to my fic. Go see! Leave her a lovely comment about how gorgeous it is! Seriously, the work and detail she put in is just amazing.
> 
> Ok so I am definitely continuing the fic, I’m going to try to use writing as a distraction from all the craziness we’re all going through. Little things to help us cope can be found in many ways, so I hope that reading will help some of you too. Much love to everyone, stay safe, take care of each other.

Time in solitary confinement has always been meaningless. Empty.

Martin Whitly has never been a man to daydream or fantasise, unless it was about his next victim, but generally he’s always had better things to do than waste his time on frivolity.

Previous occasions in his tiny cell he’s either been too medicated to know what day it was, let alone what time, or he’s spent it going over medical notes he has memorised or looking through patients files.

This time is different.

Martin daydreams, and fantasises, paints pictures when he closes his eyes to sleep. Hour after hour in his cell he thinks about Malcolm. 

He always knew it would end up like this. Ideally he wouldn’t be locked up in a mental institution, but beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, their relationship has grown and grown since Malcolm came back to him.

Martin smiles, the soft pillow of the cot like bed nestled under his head. 

They will have so much to talk about. Four more days to go and Martin is sure that Malcolm will be waiting for him.

“Three days, seven hours, to be precise,” Martin says. “Not long now, my boy.” 

***

“Most killers feel arousal before, during, or after the act.”

Malcolm looks up, a question on his face. He’s sitting cross legged on the floor, notebook on one knee, elbow on the other.

“What about all three?”

“Very good,” Martin smiles. He’s always been so proud of Malcolm’s intellect. “It may vary in intensity, but there most likely is arousal in all three instances. But, not necessarily sexual.”

Malcolm looks down and writes something, not quite hiding his blush. Martin watches him pull awkwardly at the neck of his Harvard sweater.

“Did you?”

You really want to know?”

Malcolm looks up at that question, and Martin knows, the answer is written all over his sons face.

Martins smile widens and Malcolm’s blush deepens.

“So you... chose your victims because you were attracted to them.” Malcolm writes a few things down then looks back up at his father.

“I wasn’t attracted to them, Malcolm. It was the act. There’s nothing else like it.”

Martin studies Malcolm’s response to his statement, watches his pupils dilate, his teeth dig into his bottom lip.

“I wonder how you’d feel?”

“Feel?” Malcolm frowns, but he knows exactly what his father is talking about. 

“Hm, if you ever killed anyone. Murdered anyone. Would you feel like I do.”

Malcolm swallows, his pencil tapping against the notebook. One thing that Martin has always loved about his son is that he thinks about things, doesn’t make snap judgements. 

“I guess we’ll never know, will we.” Malcolm closes his notes and stands up, smoothing his clothes and pushing his hair out of his eyes. “I have to get to class.”

“Of course,” Martin says. “I hope our talks are helpful. You’ll come and see me again soon, won’t you?”

Malcolm stops at the doorway to the cell, his hand on the bars. His knuckles go white from squeezing it in his hand. Almost like he doesn’t want to leave.

“I have a free period on Friday,” Malcolm says.

“Friday, my boy.”

Martin wakes and the dream fades to the sparse view of his temporary accommodation. 

“Only three more days,” Martin says, sighing happily. Maybe he can do something to make Malcolm blush like he had all those years ago. Martin plans on asking Malcolm that question again to see if his answer has changed. 

***

One of the main reasons that Martin decided to adopt a vegan diet was that the food at Claremont, specifically the meat dishes, left a lot to be desired. It also gave him a kinder edge, which for a convicted serial killer, is always a good thing. 

It’s while he’s sitting and eating a delightful vegetable stir fry that he gets to thinking about when Malcolm was a young boy, around five years old. 

They’d been doing some shopping, and after buying Malcolm some new shoes, Martin had taken him to a market. It was busy, loud, but Malcolm always stayed close to Martins side, holding onto his hand or jacket. 

On that particular day, something must have caught the boys attention and when Martin had turned to tell him something, there was no sign of him.

Martin has only experienced true fear a handful of times. Times from his past which he keeps buried deep down in the darkest places of his mind. And the other time’s, every single one has been when he believed that Malcolm was in danger. 

He’d been gone all of a few minutes, but Martin would have been prepared to destroy the whole market to find him. 

When he did find him, Malcolm was crying next to a stall selling colourful lollipops. Martin was on his knees in a second, wrapping his arms around him, too relieved to scold him for wandering off.

“I’m sorry, daddy,” Malcolm slobbed, wetting Martin’s shirt with his tears.

“It’s ok, I’ve got you now, it’s ok.” 

Martin rememberers Malcolm shaking his head and trying to turn away from his embrace.

“Mummy says if I’m a big boy I shouldn’t cry.” Malcolms chest hitches, tears still spilling down his cheeks. “But I couldn’t find you.”

“Shhh, Malcom, come here.” 

Martin had scooped Malcolm up into his arms, sitting down on a bench and putting his son on his lap.

“There’s nothing wrong with crying, whatever your mother tells you. But you won’t have to because I promise we won’t be parted again. I’d never let you get hurt. I’ll always be with you.”

Martin kissed the top of Malcolm’s head, holding him close until the tears had stopped.

***

Sixteen hours until Martin is out of solitary. 

He has to admit that he is getting a bit antsy now that the end is within sight. The anticipation of seeing Malcolm again is like a hum of electricity in his veins, not unlike how it felt in the days leading up to a kill. 

In the dark silence of his cell, something stirs inside him. Martin’s breathing slows.

As a surgeon, Martin has all of the secrets that the human body keeps. The buttons that can be pressed, or not, to create pain and pleasure. Some that the average person has no clue that they exist.

He once read a fascinating paper about auto erotic asphyxiation, but found the method of it too crude to try himself. The basic principle was intriguing though, and he found that oxygen deprivation was a very successful factor in his occasional masturbatory dalliances. 

His heart pumps in slow, syrupy beats, thick with the forced lack of oxygen. Martins cock fills against his thigh, slowly, slowly rising until it lies in the crease between his hip and thigh.

Martin reaches for himself, holding his penis and squeezing it enough that it throbs responsively. He exhales, forcing more air from his lungs than a normal breath, shame making sweat break out on his forehead.

It’s not shame about why he’s doing this, but that he’s allowing himself to lose control at all. 

Martin commands, he manipulates, he uses and pulls the threads of people’s weaknesses. That’s how he works. Control is his weapon. 

Rolling his hips, Martin is giving in to his own weakness. His only.

Gripping himself tightly, Martin denies the rush of orgasm already threatening. He can keep himself on the edge of it all night if he chooses, though it’s always difficult to hold off when the subject of his pleasure is so vivid. So beautiful.

A smile spreads on Martin’s lips.

“Oh... my boy.”

***

“Freedom at last.” Martin stretches his arms, keeping them raised as David attaches his restraints. “Maybe freedom wasn’t the right word.”

David gives a half hearted eye roll, locking the chain in place and stepping back over the line.

“You know you missed me,” Martin chuckles, but David just sits down in his chair and crosses his long legs.

Walking around his cell, Martin takes in the familiarity of it. He’s strangely come to quite like his permanent home at the hospital.

The phone on the table by David’s chair buzzes and he picks it up, nodding and then replacing the receiver.

“You have a visitor.”

“So soon?” Martin pushes his fingers through his hair, more unruly than normal. 

Standing in the centre of his cell, Martin waits. The anticipation is almost as delicious as the arrival.

There’s a buzzing sound indicating that the outer door is opening.

“Here he comes,” Martin says, smiling even before he sees Malcolm walking into the holding bay just outside of Martin’s cell. He looks good, a little drawn, but that’s only to be expected.

David stands and follows procedure to open the door, nodding politely at Malcolm and then leaving the room.

“Malcolm... hello. You know, I’ve only been out, hmm, a little over ten minutes. Someone’s eager to see his old man.”

Malcolm swallows and steps towards the line, stopping briefly before practically throwing himself into his fathers arms.

The hug is crushing, taking the air from Martin’s chest, but he returns the embrace quickly. Malcolm’s head is tucked against his chest, easy for him to place a kiss against his hair.

“Hey, hey... it’s ok, I’m here now.”

Malcolm inhales shakily, pulling back and looking at Martin’s lips. 

“Sorry, I... just, it’s good to see you.”

“Are you alright?”

“Perfect. Fine.”

“Hm, perfect and fine.” Martin says, skeptically. “You can tell me if there’s something wrong. Something happened while I was away?”

Malcolm shrugs, shaking his head.

“Nothing.”

Martin puts a hand on Malcolm’s face, sweeping his thumb across his cheekbone. He’s always been able to read Malcolm, even through the fronts that he uses on other people. Martin doesn’t think that anyone has ever really seen who his son is but him.

“Come and sit. We can talk.”

Martin goes and sits on the bed, patting the space beside him.

Malcolm fidgets, putting his hands in his pockets and then out. Finally he sits down on the floor by his fathers feet.

“I don’t want to talk.”

“There’s something bothering you and I want to help.”

“Nothings bothering me.” Malcolm smiles, but there’s no weight to it. It’s like a sliver of glass that would splinter with the slightest touch.

“Is it about you and me? Not having second thoughts are you?” Martin laughs. He doesn’t believe that, but Malcolm is acting a little off, and Martin can tell he’s hiding something. 

“There’s nothing wrong, ok? I missed you.” Malcolm gets to his knees, putting his hand on Martin’s knees. “Did you miss me?”

“Every second.” Martin exhales, opening his legs a little. 

“Good. That’s good.”

Malcolm dips his head down, nudging Martin’s thighs open and mouthing at the hospital slacks.

Martin moans, a little surprised, but very much aroused by Malcolm’s lack of restraint. He hisses when Malcolm’s fingers dig into his knees, pain shooting up his leg.

He can hear Malcolm’s breathing, quick and strained, like he can’t quite fill his lungs. And then he sees the tremor. Well, he feels it first, a fluttering against his knee that’s gone in a second because Malcolm tries to hide it by going for Martin’s belt.

“Malcolm.”

“I need you.”

Martin frowns. He puts his hand on top of Malcolm’s hair, caressing it gently.

“Malcolm.”

“Let me... please...” Malcolm keeps trying to open Martin’s pants, his hand shaking so badly though he doesn’t seem to notice. Either that or he’s just denying it.

Malcolm is so desperate, beautifully wrecked, and Martin is hard for him. He wants Malcolm’s lips, wants those slender fingers around him, but not like this.

“Malcolm, stop.” Martin covers Malcolm hands, shifting his hips to ease the throb between his legs. “Tell me what’s wrong, boy.”

Malcolm looks away and gets to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Martin says, standing and zipping himself up. “Come here.”

Malcolm lets Martin guide him to sit beside him on the bed.

“Let me look at you,” Martin says. “How’s your shoulder?”

Malcolm, still looking a bit crestfallen, maybe even rejected, looks down at his shoulder like he’s only just realised what Martin was talking about.

“It’s ok, I think. Feels hot. I didn’t know you knew about it.”

“I saw the news report,” Martin says, touching the lapels on Malcolm’s jacket. “Take this off, let me have a look at it. I don’t suppose you’ve been taking care of it?”

“I’ve been busy.” Malcolm takes the jacket off and drapes it over the end of the bed.

Martin runs his hands up Malcolm arms, the slide of crisp white cotton feels so good against the palm of his hands, not to mention the taught, well toned arms underneath. 

He hears Malcolm’s breath hitch when Martin undoes the top button of his shirt, his hand shaking just a little in his lap with each button his father opens.

When he gets about halfway down Martin stops, pulling back one side just to uncover the location of the wound. 

The bandage isn’t sticking completely to Malcolm’s skin, telling Martin that the dressing hasn’t been changed as regularly as it should. He peels it off gently, stroking Malcolm’s pectoral as he does.

“This is looking angry,” Martin says, tutting for emphasis. It makes Malcolm smile. 

“Guess I need a Doctor,” Malcom replies. 

Martin looks up into Malcolm’s eyes, their faces only a few inches apart. 

“Tell me what’s wrong, Malcolm. Whatever it is we can figure it out together. We’ve always done that.”

Malcolm shifts, hissing when martins finger grazes the wound.

“Ok, this needs cleaning. Go ask David for some things out of his handy medical box. Tell him I don’t need anything sharp.”

Martin sits back, giving Malcolm some room. He closes his shirt but doesn’t button it up, going over to use the intercom button then disappearing from view while he gets the supplies.

While Martin waits, he thinks.

Something has changed in Malcolm, and he doesn’t think it’s the stress of having Martin go into solitary for seven days. His ego would like him to think that, but it’s not.

It could be something to do with work? Or that polo neck wearing idiot who fancies himself Malcolm’s father. Or maybe Jessica is behind it all? Her overbearing might be getting too much for Malcolm.

He’ll have to tread carefully, ask some questions to try to tease the truth out of him, get Malcom to give him the answer.

“I have a bandage and some sterilising wipes,” Malcolm says when he returns, holding the items in the air.

“Excellent, that’s all I need. Sit back down and I’ll get you cleaned up, alright?”

Malcolm hands the supplies to his father and takes a seat, pushing his shirt off his shoulder again.

“Why haven’t you looked after this?” Martin removes the old bandage, touching the parts of Malcolm’s skin where the adhesive has stuck. 

Sighing through his nose, Malcolm watches Martin’s hands closely.

“It’s been a rough week. I... I forgot to take some of my meds and it messed me up for a few days.”

“You forgot?” Martin looks up, eyebrow raised.

“Well, I didn’t actually forget. Took too many then didn’t take any at all.”

Martin opens a wipe and puts the wrapping on the bed. That’s interesting. Whatever is bothering Malcolm is bad enough that he’s screwing up his meds. 

“And now?” Martin gently cleans Malcolm’s wound, inspecting the stitches as he does. They’re not bad, but he could have done better. 

“Back to normal. As normal as I get, anyway.”

Martin runs his hand down Malcolm’s arm. 

“What is normal, my boy?” Martin unwraps the clean dressing. 

Malcolm laughs, sounding more like himself.

“I can think of a few examples that don’t include eight different prescription drugs.”

Martin smiles and traces Malcolm’s collarbone with the tip of his finger. 

“What made it a rough week?”

“I did get stabbed. I think that’s enough of a reason.”

Martin puts the dressing over Malcolm’s wound, pressing it down so that it adheres to the skin. “Is it anything to do with the reason why you’ve been avoiding asking me anything about why I was put into solitary?”

Malcolm looks down, pulls his shirt over the bandage, covering himself up. 

“I didn’t think you’d want to talk about it.”

“Why not?” Martin sees it now. It hadn’t taken long to pinpoint the whole reason for Malcolm’s behaviour. He’s hiding something that involves Martin’s absence this past week. 

Malcolm’s fingers pause midway through buttoning up his shirt. He looks confused. 

“I thought it’d make you lose it again.”

Martin scoffs like it’s the most ridiculous suggestion. Sure he had a moment of seething jealousy, who hasn’t?

“Being alone so long gives you a lot of time to think.” Martin puts a hand on Malcolm’s knee. He’s jumpy, anxious that Malcolm is going to say something unexpected. Something that’s going to hurt.

Malcolm’s face is pained, a struggle going on inside his head that Martin cannot see. 

“You know you can tell me anything.”

Malcolm says something to that, so quietly that Martin doesn’t hear him properly, but it sounded like... pathetic.

“Malcolm, what’s going on here? I’ll be getting a complex, you know.” Martin laughs, but it fades to a nervous smile. 

“It’s not... it’s me, ok? I’ve not seen my shrink in weeks, there’s been a lot happening with work and then you... it got too much and I couldn’t handle it. I’m fine now. I’m over it.”

As soon as the words are out Malcolm cringes. 

“Over what?”

Malcolm rubs his hand, but it still trembles under the pressure. 

“I already know why you were put in there. I didn’t ask because I know.”

Martin takes this in. He’s never hidden his dislike for Arroyo, the man did get him locked up after all, and his snide comments about the man have not gone unnoticed by his son. But there’s no way that Malcolm could know that seeing the detective treating Malcolm like his own flesh and blood made Martin lose control. 

“I came here to show you that I can handle it... I still want...” Malcolm sighs with frustration. 

“You’re not making any sense. What is it that you think you know?”

Malcom frowns and pushes his fingers through his hair, shifting closer to Martin before moving away from him again.

“Can’t we just go back to how it was before this week? Nothing’s changed and we can...”

Malcolm’s phone rings, cutting him off. His whole body stutters, like the call reminded him that there’s a world outside the cell.

“I have to take this.”

“No, you don’t.” Martin stands, following Malcolm as far as he can until the chain stops him. He reaches out for Malcolm but he’s already over the red line. “We’re talking. Ignore it.”

“It’s Gil... it’s work. I have to.”

Malcolm turns his back. Separating Martin from his other life. 

That just won’t do. 

“Look at me, boy!”

The chain pulls at Martin’s back, baring his full weight as he strains to get closer to his son. Malcolm flinches at the sound of Martin’s voice, but turns back to face him. It’s the same tone that Martin used right before Malcolm stabbed him.

“Gil?” Malcolms eyes stay focused on Martin as he answers the phone. “No, I’m fine. I’m at home.”

Martin mouths ‘liar’ at Malcolm, the jealous rage still just bubbling under the surface of his skin.

“Oh, it wasn’t severed?” Malcolm frowns, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. 

Murder has that effect on both of them, Martin thinks to himself.

“I’ll be right there.”

“Duty calls,” Martin says, bitterly. He doesn’t have the full picture, he hates not having the full picture, and Malcolm’s vagueness has thrown him in a spin. “Will I see you again today?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“You could? Tell me about the case?” Martin is aware that he comes across as begging, but he needs to keep picking away at Malcolm’s wall. Whatever he’s hiding, and whatever he thinks about why Martin ended up in solitary, Martin needs the answers.

One things for sure, he doesn’t know that it was because of Gil, otherwise Malcolm wouldn’t have answered that phone. 

“If I can, yeah... I’ll come back later.”

“Good.” 

Martin feels like a petulant child, having his most precious toy taken from him. 

“I love you, my boy.”

Malcolm stops at the doors, David appearing behind the glass to let him out.

“I love you too.”

***

Malcolm makes it to the end of the long driveway before he goes back, running up the hill and back through the huge double doors to the hospital. 

“Sir? Excuse me, sir?!”

A nurse that Malcolm doesn’t recognise stands up from behind the desk, looking alarmed.

“Hi, um, we haven’t met. I’m Malcolm Bright, Martin Whitly’s son, I just need to go back to see him. Five minutes, I promise.” Malcolm gives her his best smile, the one that makes him look trustworthy.

“You can’t go in and out whenever you want, Mr bright. This isn’t a deli.”

“I understand that. I was just here a few minutes ago and I need to see him again for a case I’m working on.”

The nurse looks intrigued if not entirely convinced.

“You’re a cop?”

“I’m a profiler, I work with cops, and right now we’re against the clock. My father might have some information I need. Please, if I could just have a few minutes with him.”

The nurse thinks, her eyebrows drawing together. She sighs.

“Ok, but don’t be long.”

“Thank you.” Malcolm winks and heads off down the corridor, Martin’s voice in his head repeating how they’re both the same. From the way Malcom manipulated the nurse back there he couldn’t argue with that.

He had to come back. It wasn’t right that he’d up and left like that, especially after answering the call from Gil. Malcolm had felt so scared though. Too close to telling Martin the truth and him knowing how desperate Malcolm really is to be the only one Martin wants. But maybe he needs to. Whatever happens, he has to make sure that he knows that Malcolm wouldn’t choose anyone over him.

Slowing when he gets to the door, Malcolm looks through the glass. He doesn’t know what to expect, Martin at his desk maybe, watching the tv screen for glimpses of, well whoever.

Malcolm doesn’t expect to see Martin looking so haunted. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. His knee is jittering, heel tapping the floor, and Malcolm has seen the signs of a building panic attack before to recognise it.

Stepping to the side, Malcolm catches David’s attention, who gets up to let him in.

“Try to calm him down,” David says as they pass, and once again, Malcolm is alone with his father.

Martin is lost in his own mind, and only looks up when Malcolm is standing right beside him.

He looks up, blinks slowly. 

“You’re back.”

Malcolm nods and puts his hand on Martin’s shoulder. 

“I shouldn’t have left like that. I’m sorry.”

Malcolm sits, his hand still touching the nape of his fathers neck. He can’t be sure if he guided Martin to lie down or if he did it himself, but somehow he’s got his fingers in those wild curls, listening to Martin’s anxious breathing.

It’s a weird flip, dizzying, to be the one giving comfort. For as long as he can remember, Malcolm has sought comfort from his father, but he’s never been on the other side of it before. Martin was always so strong, confident that nothing could ever hurt Malcolm, nor would he let it. 

“Aren’t you going to be late?”

Malcolm sighs. “Yeah, a little. The body isn’t getting any deader though.”

“I thought he said jump and you said how high? Got to please my replacement.”

Malcolm’s hand stills, a grey curl between his fingers. Martins leg is shaking, like a tic that comes with stress.

Gil. Martin is bothered by him, jealous of him... but Malcolm heard the nurses say that Martin freaked out because he saw Gil with Jessica. Maybe... maybe that’s what they thought he’d seen but...

“Do you want to know why I screwed up my meds and pretty much had a breakdown?”

Malcolm swallows, his mouth dry. If he doesn’t tell him now then he doesn’t think he ever will, and that could jeopardise everything. 

“I overheard some of the nurses talking, they were saying things about you, how you lost it when you saw Gil and... and mom on tv.”

Malcolm watches martins eyes move, his eyebrows drawing together.

“I was jealous.” The words come out in a whispered confession, shame and fear rising up in Malcolm’s stomach. He’s only going on the hunch that he’s wrong, and that it was gils involvement in his life that made his father lose control. There’s the risk he’s wrong though.

“You...” Martin sits up abruptly, making Malcolm’s hand fall to his lap. There’s a smile growing on his face. “Oh, no... my boy, no. Of course that’s what the nurses would see. I didn’t get confined because I couldn’t handle seeing Arroyo and your mother... it was seeing him. With you.”

Malcolm shakes his head. He can’t believe this. All those days of torment, hour after hour of distress, and all because of a misunderstanding.

Martin places his hand on Malcolm’s leg, sliding it onto his knee.

“Look at me. Malcolm, look at me.”

Martin lifts Malcolm’s chin so that he has to make eye contact. 

“This has all been one big misunderstanding.” Martin smiles, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “It’s kind of funny when you think about it.”

Malcolm screws his face up, but doesn’t pull away when Martin cups his cheek.

“Ok, maybe not funny... but, we got things wrong and look what we did to ourselves. I’m actually flattered.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Malcolm replies, rolling his eyes. 

“Hm, I’m glad you think so.”

“Dad...”

“Hey, look, we’re past it now. You have no reason whatsoever to be jealous, yes?” Martin lifts an eyebrow for an answer.

“Ok... I believe you.”

“Good boy.” Martin kisses Malcolm’s nose. “And, do I have any reason to be jealous?”

Malcolm sees the subtle change in his father, the hard edge to his eyes and the tension in his jaw.

“Of course not. Gil isn’t... he’s never...” Malcolm sighs, closing his eyes and leaning forward until their foreheads touch. “He could never be you.”

Martin kisses Malcolm’s eyelids, grazes his lips across his cheekbone, his hairline. He inhales, taking in the smell of his son, his sweat, his skin.

Martin kisses Malcolm’s neck, inhales. Unbuttons the top of Malcolm’s shirt, imhales. Nuzzles Malcolm’s stomach, inhales. 

“What.. ah, what’re you doing?” 

“Showing you,” Martin replies, hand curled over Malcolm’s thigh. He breathes in again, a deep shuddering breath, laughing once and resting his forehead on Malcolm’s hip. “You’re intoxicating.”

“Fuck... please...” Malcolm grips Martin’s cardigan, unsure of what to do so he just stays still, waiting for his father to continue.

“I’ve never loved anyone or anything the way I love you.”

Martin unzips Malcolm’s suit pants, pulling his underwear down enough to get at his cock. It’s soft, limp in his hand, but it won’t be for long. Massaging it gently, Martin lets his beard brush against the length. 

Malcolm grips the bed tightly, his body threatening to jerk right off the bed with how good that feels. His fathers beard has been in so many of his dreams. Malcolm has woken up more than a few times imagining he can feel the tingling burn of it between his thighs.

By the time that Martin takes him into his mouth, Malcolm is hardening, his cock flushed a deep pink. They’re in full view of the doors, anyone could see them, but the thought doesn’t make Malcolm stop his father. 

“Mmm, yeah...” Malcolm moans, his head tipping back as Martin sucks and tongues around the head of his cock. “More... please...”

Martin hums around him, sucking hard and tonguing the slit like a starved man. Martin is getting his fill now. 

Malcolm rocks his hips slowly, agonisingly so, but Martin has him held down. He wants to fuck his mouth, wants to hear his father choke.

“Feels so good... m’not going to last...”

Martin squeezes Malcolm’s thigh then reaches up to touch his chest, fingers probing until they find a nipple. He strokes it through Malcolm’s shirt, pinching the raised bud until Malcolm cries out.

“Oh fuck! Da... ahh...”

Martin releases Malcolm with a pop of his lips, his hand stroking the head of Malcolm’s cock rapidly. He rests just the tip against his bottom lip, waiting.

“I’m close.” Malcolm coils like iron towards a magnet, his orgasm building, right on the edge.

“Come on, boy. Let me have it.”

Martins eyes are so intense, a controlled wildness that Malcolm has seen before. 

“Daddy, ahhh...”

Malcolm comes, shooting onto Martin’s lips and onto his tongue. Martin catches it all and seals his lips around the head to take the rest, swallowing come down so that he doesn’t waste a drop.

He doesn’t let up until Malcolm pushes at his shoulders, over sensitive to Martin’s continued attentions. 

“My good boy. You did so good for me.”

Martin sits up fully and takes Malcolm into his arms, letting him catch his breath and recover for a few moments. 

Martin zips Malcolm up and then wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb, making Malcolm blush.

“You have a murder to solve, my boy. Although I can’t say that I’m sorry for making you late.”

“I’ll make up a good excuse,” Malcolm replies, standing up and smoothing his hands through his hair. “If I can get back here today...”

“You just do that,” Martin replies, crossing his legs, unashamedly looking at Malcolm with a dirty smirk. “Call me if you need any help. Anytime.”

Malcolm smiles and shakes his head. It’s funny how suddenly everything is ok again, after days of self torture, he has his father back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andy! Let the next chapter begin!!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a new killer to find and Malcolm leans on his father in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks for your patience and for reading so far, really love reading your comments they’re super nice and encouraging. So here’s a new chapter :) hope you’re all staying well in these crazy days.

“Ooh, penthouse.” Malcolm steps out of the elevator and whistles. “Money doesn’t always buy taste though.”

Across the wide entrance hall, Gil folds his arms.

“Where have you been, Bright?”

“Traffic was a nightmare, sorry.” Malcolm doesn’t look at Gil when he talks, too focused on the body pinned to the wall. “You weren’t kidding when you said the head wasn’t severed completely... dangling would be the description I’d use. And not the cause of death, he was moved here to be displayed. Is there any blood in the rest of the apartment?”

“Yeah, in the kitchen,” JT says, frowning extra hard at Malcolm. “What’s up with you?”

“I’m glad to be back at work. Why? Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“You’re more... you, than you usually are.”

Malcolm pokes his finger towards JT. “You could put that on a T-shirt.”

“Can you two stop flirting and focus?” Dani says, annoyed.

“She’s right. Focus.” Gil takes them into the kitchen where Adrisa is squatting down next to a huge blood pool.

“He was killed over the sink?” Malcolm steps around the team to get to the best place to see. 

“Yes! From exsanguination. But that’s obvious... um, hi.”

“Hi,” Malcolm replies. He’s in too good a mood to be a little creeped out by Dr Tanaka today. “Does he live here?”

Dani flips a page in her notebook.

“Mark Foster, lived in the building for three years, only moved into the penthouse a year ago. No partner or children, and he works for Alias Associates.”

“Lawyer? Hm, interesting. Was he any good?”

“Any good at what?” Gil replies.

“At his job. A disgruntled client might want to take revenge on an incompetent lawyer. Did you know that statistically lawyers lose, on average, twenty seven percent of their cases.”

“Who knows crap like that,” JT mutters, heading back out into the hall.

“So? Has he lost a case recently?” Malcolm asks, leaving the kitchen and snooping around the apartment. It’s sparse, with few personal items to make it feel homely. It reminds Malcolm of his own apartment.

“The last one was a year ago,” Dani says, scrolling through information on her phone. “Miss Virginia Sanders, filed a complaint about her boss for mental abuse and intimidation, but the case was dropped when some evidence was lost by Foster.”

“This killer isn’t a woman, but Miss Sanders might still be involved,” Malcolm adds.

“We’ve got her address,” Gil says.

“The killer took the murder weapon with him, so it’s premeditated, but the style... it’s frenzied yet controlled. He’s got something to say.” Malcolm goes back to the body, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. “Leaving the head like this, it’s the message. Why not just cut it off entirely?”

“Maybe he was interrupted.” JT holds up a diary, giving it to Gil. “Found this in the office.”

Gil reads the marked page and hums. “Foster had a meeting yesterday evening, no name, just a time and some kind of symbol.”

“A symbol?” Malcolm takes the diary when Gil hands it to him. “It looks like a hand.”

“So the killer could have continued if this visitor hadn’t come to the apartment.”

Malcolm looks at Gil. “I don’t think so. I think this is exactly how he wanted the body to look. And it doesn’t feel like it was interrupted. It’s complete.”

“We can bear that in mind, but we have to look at other avenues too,” Gil says. “Follow up on the leads we have, find out where they all were at the time of death.”

“That was yesterday between six and eight,” Adrissa says, appearing from the kitchen.

“So it could be that the killer was interrupted,” JT reiterates.

“Or the visitor was the killer,” Malcolm adds. He’s just bending down to look more closely at the neck wound when his phone rings in his pocket. He stands and sees the name Dr Whitly on the screen, sending a little flutter of excitement through his chest. “Uh, I should take this.”

Malcolm turns away from the team and answers.

“Malcolm, it’s dad. I hope you’ve, uh... recovered from your visit.”

Malcolm can hear the glee in his fathers voice.

“I’m at work. Why are you calling me?” Malcolm turns slightly, enough to see that everyone is watching him.

“Oh, right, yeah. Gotta keep up the charade, my boy. This is fun. Ok, why don’t you put me on speaker phone?”

Malcolm stalls at that. “What, but...”

“Bright? You with us?” Gil approaches, tapping Malcolm on the shoulder. “The surgeon?”

“Oh wow, his detective skills are razor sharp,” Martin mocks, laughing quietly.

“Is this just how it’s going to be with every case now? You do remember the guy is a convicted psycho, right?” JT looks pissed.

“Let me talk to him,” Gil says, motioning with his hand for the phone.

“He wants to talk to all of us,” Malcolm says quickly. “Look, he’s helped before, he might be able to help with this.”

After a pause, Gil nods. “Fine, but the second I think he’s bullshitting, he’s gone.”

Malcolm lowers his phone and presses the icon for speakerphone.

“You’re on, Dr Whitly.”

“Fantastic! Hello, team!”

No one speaks. Malcolm clears his throat.

“I’ll talk you through the scene. If you have any thoughts you can tell us.”

“Yes, sir. You’re very commanding in your professional position, Malcolm. Detective Arroyo, I think my son needs a promotion, or a pay rise?”

“Dr Whitly, this isn’t a social call,” Gil replies, sighing.

“Sure, quite right,” Martin says stoically. “So, tell me everything.”

Malcolm hides a smile and begins, describing the scene and adding information to build the profile. Even if the team always take time to catch up, Malcolm is there to do his job, and he knows that he sees things that others don’t, just like his father.

“Hmmm, that’s interesting,” Martin muses. “This killer is creating something here, a spectacle, something to be viewed. The victim is unimportant.”

“Excuse me?” Dani says, voice raised.

“In the eyes of this killer, the victim is only a means to an end.” Martin continues. “They may be connected, but that’ll become more clear when you find the next victim.”

Gil sighs impatiently.

“I think he’s right,” Malcolm says. “And I don’t think it’ll be long before he kills again.”

“Malcolm, my boy, can you tell me about the knife wound to the neck again. What does it look like?”

Malcolm goes over to the body, half kneeling but being careful not to touch it.

“It’s jagged.”

“Messy? Like it’s been caused by the blade?”

Malcolm frowns and looks closer.

“No, it looks deliberate... it’s been cut to look messy, but there’s precision...”

“Hmm, something your coroner missed,” Martin says.

“Hey, I’m right here.” Adrissa frowns and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “And I didn’t miss it, I hadn’t got to it yet. There are a lot of things going on here.”

“Ok, my apologies.” Martin pauses. “So, what does that tell you, Malcolm?”

“He’s a narcissist, attention seeking, but because he thinks he deserves it. He’s doing something... beautiful.”

“What? Kid, that better be what you think the killer is thinking.” Gil rubs the stubble on his chin. He’s looking at Malcolm with a worried expression.

“Of course that’s what he means, Detective Arroyo. What else would he mean?” Martin sound so serious, defending Malcolm’s integrity.

Something inside Malcolm coils, slipping around his bones, squeezing his arteries. It’s almost like muscle memory, like a faded photograph in his mind suddenly vivid, shocking in its colour. It happens when he puts himself into the killers place and it feels more comfortable than it should.

“Bright?” Gil practically growls.

“Um, yeah... that’s what I meant.”

“Well, isn’t this thrilling,” Martin says, clapping, cutting the tension that had suddenly built. “Look at us, all working together to solve a grisly murder. I feel like I need one of those shiny badges you wear.”

“You’re done,” Gil says, pointing at the phone in Malcolm’s hand. “We’ve heard enough.”

“What? Oh, great... I’m used and tossed aside,” Martin continues, over dramatically. “My boy, tell them I’m an asset to your group.”

“I have to go, Dr Whitly.”

Malcolm ends the call and takes a breath. 

“It can’t be just me who gets the creeps when he call you ‘my boy’, is it?” JT shudders, shaking just head and shoulders.

The others don’t respond, but all eyes are in Malcolm.

“He’s... it’s just what he’s always called me. I don’t really notice anymore.”

“Dani, JT, you two go and talk to Miss Sanders,” Gil says, obviously irritated by Martin’s interruption. “Bright, you’re with me.”

“Where are we going,” Malcolm asks.

“We have to interview his friends and colleagues. Police work. Maybe one of them will give you more information to build your profile.” Gil grabs his jacket. “Dr Tanaka, I’ll need your report asap.”

“Yes, absolutely, definitely. I’m on it.”

Malcolm sighs and follows Gil out the door.

“Hey, maybe it’s not a good idea letting your dad in on these things,” Dani says, catching him before he leaves. “I get that you think he wants to help. But he doesn’t. He wants control.”

Malcolm frowns and nods, continuing after Gil. 

She’s not wrong. Martin always wants control.

Malcolm grits his teeth and begins to shape the profile in his head. 

***

The worst thing about insomnia is feeling so exhausted and yet your body refuses to shut down, and after a long and frustrating day it’s the insult to Malcolm’s injury.

Pouring some juice into a glass, Malcolm knocks it back like whisky, stretching his back and kicking off his shoes.

“What’s that feeling you get when you know something, but you don’t know what it is?” Malcolm goes over to Sunshine and fills her dish with seed. She tweets happily.

It scratches behind his eyes, this something, part of the growing profile of this killer. 

“It’s almost like dejavu,” Malcolm continues, sighing in annoyance. “I’m missing something.”

Taking his phone out of his pocket, Malcolm considers calling the hospital. It’s late, but he could say it’s an emergency, see if they’d put him through to his fathers cell.

Since they... since things happened between them, Malcolm has stopped burying how much he thinks about Martin every day. Times like now, when he can’t figure something out, his instinct is to talk to his father. Martin would guide him, turn his thinking to places that are elusive, but always in a way that meant that in the end, Malcolm would discover the answer himself.

“If I could just talk to him,” Malcolm muses. “Can’t hurt to try, right?”

Sunshine stays quiet, too busy eating to be bothered.

“Here goes nothing.” 

Malcolm calls the hospital, pacing by the end of his bed. The voice at reception sounds tired, and bored, and after a few choice words Malcolm is put through to the nurse doing the night shift.

“He’s asleep, do you want me to wake him?” 

Malcolm hesitates, but then he figures that unlike him, Martin can always go back to sleep afterwards.

“Yeah, could you?”

“Give me a minute,” she says. 

There is a few muffled words followed by faint footsteps, and Malcolm feels a surge of relief that the nurse isn’t staying to monitor the call.

“Hello, Malcolm. What a nice surprise.” Martin sounds soft, sleep still clinging to his words.

“I’m sorry it’s late,” Malcolm replies. “I wasn’t sure if they were going to let me talk to you.”

“Hmm, I have more influence here than some of the other inmates.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm laughs quietly. Martin could charm the birds from the trees and convince them they’re cats without breaking a sweat. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Malcolm bites his lip, a tingle of pleasure making his cock take interest.

“I need your help.”

“Of course. You know I’ll do what I can to help you.”

Malcolm hears the bed move, picturing Martin getting more comfortable, maybe even lacing his fingers together over the soft rise of his stomach.

“Are you alright?” Martin is smiling, Malcolm can hear it in his voice. “What help did you need exactly?”

Malcolm sinks down on the bed, his hand pressed firmly over his heart. 

“It’s work,” Malcolm replies.

“Hmm, better tell me then... before we find something else to do over the phone.” 

Martin chuckles, making Malcolm blush. 

“It’s... I can’t get a profile on this guy. Every time I try I keep thinking that I’m missing something obvious. I don’t know what that is though.”

“Tell me what happened after I called. That was a hoot, wasn’t it?”

“You enjoyed messing with them a bit too much,” Malcolm says, flopping down on his back to get more comfortable. “We went to interview everyone connected to Foster, but every one of them had an alibi.”

“You didn’t think they were involved anyway, right?” Martin says.

“No, but... I don’t always get the benefit of the doubt with my theories. And this case, I can’t get a clear enough picture to even suggest a lead.”

Malcolm closes his eyes and blows a breath out between pursed lips. 

“What is your profile so far? Talk me through it.” 

Martin has used this method forever. Getting Malcolm to break things down to get a better understanding of the bigger picture.

“Male, late forties at the youngest, maybe early fifties. He’s experienced.”

“What makes you say that?” Martin asks.

“The skill he has with the body. He wanted it to look messy, but it was done with precision... care even. I wish I could show you...”

Malcolm frowns. There’s a moment of guilt at that thought, remembering that his father isn’t an innocent man himself, and it should feel more wrong than it does discussing this with him.

“You did show me,” Martin says, whisper soft. Despite being on the other end of a phone, the call feels so intimate. “All I had to do was close my eyes and I was in that room next to you.”

Malcolm smiles, biting his lip.

“So, he’s an experienced killer with a flare for detail. He’s too smart to have any connection to his victims.”

“That’s a signature in itself,” Martin adds. “He’ll choose them specifically though, watch them before he kills, know the victims movements.”

“Yeah...”

“But that’s not what’s bothering you.”

“No, it’s not.” Malcolm sighs, sitting up again, resting his head on his knees. “Does any of it feel familiar to you? I... I can’t help feeling I’ve come across this guy before, maybe someone you’ve talked about.”

“I don’t know him personally, no. But...”

“But?” Malcolm lifts his head, his heart beat loud in his ears. “You know who it is, don’t you?”

“I have a hunch. But I want to see if you can figure it out. Go back to the body, Malcolm.”

Malcolm scoffs. Of course Martin won’t just tell him. 

Closing his eyes, Malcolm remembers what he saw at the crime scene. He thinks about the position of the body, the location, the almost severed head, the blood pooled in the kitchen... Malcolm sighs.

“It’s all in the detail, my boy,” Malcolm says. He’s excited, Malcolm can tell, and something tingles low in his gut.

“It’s the neck wound,” Malcolm says finally. His brain is working overtime, pulling threads until he finds the one he’s looking for. “He’s creating something beautiful, something personal... he’s an artist.”

“There now. You see it.” Martin claps his hands together.

“But... he’s dead. Matty Pierce can’t be the killer. He was shot at the theatre when... oh...” Malcolms eyes go wide. “Frank Redfern.”

“I knew you’d get it,” Martin says, pride laced in his voice. “You know they never mentioned his name in any of the news reports.”

Malcolm gets up and goes to his laptop, opening it and hitting the power button.

“I know, but he wasn’t a suspect so... I, uh, do we have much time left? Your phone time will be up soon.”

“Don’t sound too disappointed, my boy. The delightful Sandra who watches over me at night likes to nap and luckily for us she’s left the phone unit here. I’m all yours... but that you knew already.”

Malcolm’s fingers still over the keyboard. 

“I forgot to tell you earlier, when I came to visit...”

“And I distracted you with an excellent and expertly performed blowjob?” Martin chuckles wickedly.

“Fuck, dad...”

“One day soon, I hope.” Martin hums, obviously enjoying the thought. “I’m sorry, I’m distracting you again aren’t I?”

“Uh, yeah actually.” Malcolm puts his hand on his crotch to adjust himself. Now really isn’t the time. “I left the recording under your pillow.”

There’s a rustling, like Martin is shifting around in bed.

“Very sneaky. Did you do what you were told, Malcolm? Were you a good boy?”

“Yes.” Malcolm swallows, adrenaline and arousal making him hot all over. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Hmm, I’m sure I will. If we weren’t hunting a murderer I’d listen to it now, make you guess which parts I’m moaning about... tell you how I’m touching myself hearing you...”

“Please...” Malcolm digs his fingers into his thighs.

“Not tonight, Malcolm. We have work to do.”

Malcolm takes some deep breaths and forces himself to focus. He opens a search engine and types in Frank Redfern. Another type of adrenaline kicks in then, a hunger that he can’t describe. Maybe Martin awakened it in him, long ago.

***

Malcolm unwraps a bright red lollipop and pushes it past his lips onto his tongue. Strawberry. It definitely feels like a strawberry lollipop kind of day.

There are print outs of Frank Redfern’s art tacked to the evidence board, details of his movements over the last twenty years, unsolved murders that he and his father had compiled as being almost certainly the work of Redfern. 

“What is all this, Kid?” Gil sits down and takes a drink of coffee.

“This, is our killer. Frank Redfern, the second set designer who was working at The Shubert theatre.”

Dani and JT look at Gil then back to Malcolm.

“Here,” Malcolm says, passing around folders containing his profile on Redfern. “Cases dating back to the late nineties, each one connecting to a piece of art that shows Redfern’s signature. Like the pattern on Foster’s neck connects to this.”

Malcolm sucks on the lollipop and taps the evidence board with his knuckles. The image he’s pointing out is the backdrop that Redfern was working on at the theatre.

“So he was involved in Pierce’s killings?” JT doesn’t sound completely convinced, but he’s asking questions at least.

“No, not exactly. They could have been a partnership, but I’m not sure yet. I don’t have proof, but I think we’ll get it when we go to Redfern’s apartment.”

“And I suppose you know where that is,” Gil asks, looking like he already knows what Malcolm is going to say.

“Last known address.” Malcolm holds up the paper he used to write down the last bit of information he managed to get hold of before the others arrived that morning. “I called the theatre.”

Dani lifts an eyebrow and shrugs.   
“We’ve got to check this guy out.”

Gil nods, holding his coffee mug against his chest. 

“How did you come up with this?”

Malcolm rests his hands on the back of the chair in front of him. 

“I remembered his name and did some research and the pieces fit. I have insomnia remember, I’ve got a lot of time on my hands.” It’s not a lie, not technically. Telling them the truth would just complicate things and that could mean more innocent people dying.”

“Hmm, alright.” Gil stands, holding out his hand for Redfern’s address. “Nice work, Bright. Let’s go.”

Having his theory accepted gives Malcolm a buzz. They’ll see once they get to the apartment that Redfern is the serial killer that Malcolm believes him to be. He wants to call his father, wants to tell him that they did it, thank him even. 

A few months ago that would have seemed impossible. 

“Are you coming?” Dani has her hand on the door, waiting for Malcolm to leave. “Nice work figuring this out.”

“Just doing my job,” Malcolm grins, closing the door behind them. 

***

Frank Redfern’s apartment is  
is like a rabbit warren. Boxes and crates stacked against every wall, canvases and the smell of paint in every room, fabric covered mounds hiding who knows what. 

This was what Malcolm had been hoping for.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

“I can’t talk for long. We’re at his apartment,” Malcolm says, not bothering with a greeting. He knew who was calling without even looking. 

“How exciting. I take it he wasn’t there?” Martins desk chair squeaks.

“I don’t think he’s been here for a while. There’s a lot of dust and no smudges or finger marks.” Malcolm leans down towards a pile of dishes piled in the sink and cringes at the mould.

“Bright? You should see this.” Gil calls from what looks like a spare bedroom.

“I’ll call you back,” Malcolm says, hanging up.

Heading to the bedroom, Malcolm joins the rest of the team. They’re looking at a wall filled with paintings and drawings, but Malcolm doesn’t think that’s what’s really got their attention. 

Pinned to each one of the paintings is a photograph.

“You were right about this guy, Bright. Good call.” Gil walks the length of the room, taking in the enormity of Redfern’s work. 

“There’s gotta be ten murders here,” JT says.

“At least,” Malcolm adds. One thing he knows about serial killers is that they like to keep some things hidden. The bodies on display here are just the tip of the iceberg.

“Now he’s in the wind,” Dani adds.

“So, we get to work and find him,” Gil says.

After that it’s a long day of research, dead ends, leads that lead well... nowhere, and everyone realising that this killer has been toying with them from the start. 

“Look, it’s getting late, you all get home and get some rest. We can pick this up tomorrow when we have something back from forensics.” Gil pats Malcolm’s shoulder as he passes him. “Go on, I know you, you’ll be here all night.”

Malcolm wants to say that he’s going to be working at home anyway, but he doesn’t want to be put on leave again, so he just nods.

JT and Dani look dejected. Redfern has covered his tracks so well that it might be impossible to find him.

Malcolm leaves the station and decides to walk home, hoping the fresh air will help to clear his head. 

He goes over everything they’ve learned today, every detail, looking for something that will give him direction. Redfern is always two steps ahead though it seems. Cancelled credit cards, no forwarding address from the theatre when he quit the day after Matty Pierce was killed.

Malcolm stops dead in his tracks.

Pierce. Could he have been some sort of student, learning from Redfern. It’s a definite possibility.

Fumbling for his phone, Malcolm almost drops it in his haste to call his father. Turning the phone the right way around, Malcolm feels the vibration in his palm. On the screen, the caller is unknown.

“Hello?” Malcolm listens, waiting for a reply, but the line goes dead. 

Probably someone trying to sell him cheap internet or something. Forgetting it, Malcolm calls Martin.

“I was getting worried,” he says, sounding a little put out. 

“I didn’t forget... there’s been a lot going on.”

“I know. I guess I’m a little needy when it comes to you,” Martin chuckles.

“Can you not try to distract me, I’ve got news. Not news, it’s a thought... a theory, but I could be just wildly speculating...”

“Slow down,” Martin says. “Tell me.”

“I think Redfern was training Matty Pierce.”

“Ooh, yes, that makes sense. In fact, I have here a newspaper article that you might be interesting in showing team Arroyo. I took the liberty of doing a little research of my own.”

“What’s in the article?” Malcolm looks at his watch. It’s too late to go to Claremont now.

“It’s an interview with our Mr Redfern. I was thinking ‘The Artist’ would be a good name for him. Anyway, he says a few interesting things that to the general public might not raise any red flags, but not everyone has a mind like ours.” 

Malcolm breathes out into the night air. The way Martin says that is like he thinks they share a mind, not that they’re similar, but they’re actually one.

The thought is terrifying. And arousing.

Goosebumps prickle up and down Malcolm’s arms.

“Still there, my boy?”

“Yeah,” Malcolm clears his throat. “Still here.”

“Ok, good. I’ll thank David for so kindly going to the library to look up Frank Redfern for us.”

Malcolm laughs. “You have everyone wound around your finger don’t you.”

“Hey, I’m using what skills I possess to help my son. Not that you need it, you’d get there on your own anyway.”

Malcolm’s smile drops. “I don’t want to be on my own.”

“You’re not.” Martin’s voice is so low Malcolm has to strain to hear him. “I’m so proud of you. My beautiful boy. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah...”

“Where are you? Are you at home?” 

“Almost,” Malcolm replies, forcing his feet to start moving again. “Why?”

“You need to relax. I can help with that too.”

There’s a sound of movement over the phone followed by a clicking.

“How?” Malcolm has a pretty good idea, but he wants to hear it from his fathers lips.

“I thought you might like to join me. I’m going to settle down and listen to your recording. Would you like that?”

Malcolm squeezes the phone in his hand, the plastic and glass grinding together.

“Wait... wait until I’m home. Please...”

“Oh, I will don’t you worry. But I’ll tell you what I’m going to want from you now, boy. So listen carefully.”

Malcolm walks faster.

“I’m listening.”

“Good boy. What you’re going to do is get nice and comfortable, but leave your suit on. You’re going to take yourself out, and then you won’t touch yourself again until you come.”

Malcolm moans. 

“You can choose one other place to touch yourself, just not your penis. Understand?”

“Yes...”

“Good. My vote would be your nipples, but I’ll let you decide.”

“Fuck.” Malcolm drops his keys, then fumbles to let himself into his loft.

“That sounds like an agreement to me.”

Almost falling up the stairs, Malcolm goes to the couch, putting his phone on speaker.

“Are you home?”

Malcolm nods, then remembers Martin can’t see him. God what he’d give to be able to skype him right now.

“Yeah, I’m home. I’m just...” 

Malcolm lowers the phone so that his father can hear, then slowly pulls down his zipper. He moves his underwear down, enough to pull his cock through the gap. 

“No touching remember. I’m going to put my headphones on, but I’ll check on you.”

Malcolm brushes his thumbs over his nipples, feeling them perk up beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt. His cock jumps at the sensation. Typical that Martin knows what would be Malcolm’s go to place to tease himself, and he knows that he can come from it. That, and hearing his father get off to the recording he made.

He starts off slow, hushed, but Malcolm can hear the subtle changes in his father as the recording progresses. Martin likes it. A lot.

“God, I’m sick,” Malcolm moans, pinching his nipples, rolling them between his fingers.

“Oh... you sound so wonderful,” Martin says, in awe of what he’s hearing. “You’re not hiding your pleasure for me...”

They moan in synch, and Malcolm reaches out for his phone to take a photo of himself, a close up of the pre-come glistening on his thigh.

Malcolm scratches his chest, circling his nipples and then stopping when his cock twitches against his leg. He repeats it, bringing himself to the edge over and over and then denying the release.

Every sound Martin makes travels straight to Malcolm’s cock, in waves of overwhelming sensation. He doesn’t know how his father will react when he says the word he wanted Malcolm to say.

He tips his head back against the couch, aching to wrap his hand around his cock, feel it pulse in his hand. He wants his fingers in his mouth, wants Martin’s fingers in his mouth... fuck, anywhere.

“My boy...” Martin breathes it out like a prayer. “So vocal, hmm you wanted me to hear how much fun you were having.”

Martin sounds almost euphoric, and every now and then Malcolm hears the steady sound of skin on skin.

“So talkative... what I’d do to you if I could... just one night.”

Malcolm’s stomach muscles clench, his cock twitching rapidly at his fathers words. One night together, no prison, no guards... the idea is dangerous, but Malcolm can’t help picture how it could be.

“You like it when I kiss you, hm?” Martin Ahh... I like it to... your soft lips, your mouth... you’re so good to me, my sweet boy...”

“Please...” Malcolm knows that Martin can’t hear him begging, that he can’t hear this way his breath hitches with every twist and pinch of his nipples. He’s sure that Martin will know what he’s doing anyway, and will have a detailed picture of it in his mind while he listens to the recording.

With Martin’s broken moans and whispered promises surrounding him, Malcolm takes more photos of himself. It’s so hard not to touch his aching cock, rolling his hips without the relief of any friction is agony.

“Uuuh, oh... want me to fuck you, do you boy? Mmm, and you ask so nicely... fuck...”

Malcolm’s phone topples from his fingers and he focuses fully on pleasuring his chest, teasing his nipples vigorously while Martin falls apart.

“Wanted me to let you come,” Martin continues, breathless and wrecked. “So desperate for it weren’t you. The things you do to me... Malcolm... oh I hope you’re as close as I am...”

Malcolm cries out, so sensitive he’s sure that he’s going to be red and bruised afterwards. He’ll take more photos of himself later, maybe print some off and hide them on Martin’s desk sometime. 

“Ahh... there it is...” Malcolm hears Martin remove the headphones. “You did so good for daddy. Bet you did this time too... oh... oh yes... my boy...”

Hearing Martin come tips Malcolm over the edge. His cock jumps, bouncing untouched while come spurts and drips between his thighs.

“Oh god... ahh!” More convulsions make Malcolm’s whole body shudder, and more bursts of come coat the head of his cock. He feels like his orgasm won’t end.

“Still going?” Martin laughs softly. He sounds strung out. “I bet you look a sight. Did you behave?”

“Yes,” Malcolm pants. “God, that was... probably the hottest thing I’ve done in my life.”

“Oh really? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Martins smugness makes Malcolm laugh. He runs his fingers over his cock, softening now, but he’s surprised to feel it perk up at the contact. 

“It was. I’ve never... never come like that before. Did you like it? The recording and...” Malcolm blows out a breath, suddenly embarrassed. He wants to please his father so badly, always has.

“I loved it.”

Malcolm sighs, curling his fingers around his cock. It’s definitely getting hard again, and after a few strokes he’s forgotten about how exhausted he feels. 

“Malcolm? What..? What’re you doing?”

“Need to come again,” Malcolm says, swallowing hard. 

“You’re..? Oh, you are,” Martin sighs. 

“Please talk to me. I want to hear your voice.” Malcolm arches off the couch, pushing his cock head through the tight fist of his hand. “Tell me what you’d do to me if we had one night.”

“One night.” Martin groans, the sound of his lips smacking together as he sucks his lip between his teeth. “I’d make love to you, of course.”

“Fuck, yes...”

“I’d lay you down. I want to take you all in, study every inch of you, your beauty.”

“More,” Malcolm says, strained. His muscles are on fire, chasing his next release.

“You’re insatiable,” Martin chuckles. “You would need to be.”

“Hmmm-uhh... keep going, I’m not going to last long .” Malcolm twists his wrist and pumps his cock steadily. 

“I’ve been thinking about your shackles,” Martin says. “I think you like them more than you let on. Maybe you’d like daddy to strap you down? Have my way with you.”

“Mmm, no... yes, ahh...” Malcolm throws his head back.

“No? Yes?” Martin sounds amused. “You want it all don’t you? Want daddy to chain you up and take you, but you want to have me too. Am I right?”

“Yeah... oh god, can I? Please say I can... I want to fuck you too. Please... oh I’m going to come. Please!”

Malcolm feels his second orgasm building. He’s sweating, burning up like he has a fever, and he’s moaning so loud he’s sure the couple who live below him probably think he’s being murdered.

“You want to fuck daddy, Malcolm? Will you come if I say yes?”

“Yes... fuck, please...” Malcolm jerks his cock desperately, waiting for Martin to speak, to say what he wants to hear. Of course, Martin being Martin, he lets Malcolm linger on the edge just a little longer.

“You can fuck me, Malcolm. Daddy wants it... now come for me.”

Crying out, practically screaming, Malcolm comes. His cock spurts a few pulses of come, but it’s mainly dry. Malcolm’s body convulses and shudders, and then he collapses back against the cushions, totally drained. 

“That was an unexpected treat. I think it took us both by surprise, didn’t it?” Martin hums happily. “You’re so good to me. Do you know how proud I am of you?”

“Uh-huh...” 

“That’s ok,” Martin laughs. “Don’t talk, you must be exhausted.”

Malcolm tries to catch his breath, feeling filthy. Somehow, every time they do this it leaves him starving for more. Martin’s obsession with him always felt so huge, so out of reach from Malcolm’s understanding, but now he can see that his own obsession was always something he repressed in himself. In truth, they’re both obsessed with each other.

“You need to rest, my boy. Maybe this will help you to get some much needed sleep?”

Malcolm stands, his legs shaky, and strips until he’s naked. He goes to bed and feels the prickle of goosebumps on his skin when he puts on one of his restraints. Maybe Martin will let Malcolm chain him up too? He’ll ask him when his brain functions again.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Malcolm says, actually feeling his eyes droop. “That was...”

“Yes, it was. Sweet dreams, Malcolm.”

The call ends and Malcolm only just manages to close his other cuff before sleep takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andyyyyyy - it’s torture time 😏


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt for Redfern continues and Malcolm has dinner with his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a little update :) hope everyone is doing well and thanks again for reading and the sweet comments :)

“Kid? A word?”

Malcolm watches Gil go back into his office. He’s got that look. The one he gets right before he suggests that Malcolm takes some time off.

“Close the door.”

“What’s up? Did you find something new on Redfern?” Malcolm knows this isn’t about the case, but it’s worth a shot.

“I had a phone call this morning. From your mother.”

“Right.” Malcolm scoffs and touches his fingertips to his temple. “What have I done now?”

“You haven’t done anything, she’s just concerned and you don’t talk to her so she goes through me.”

“Well, I’ll call her tonight and tell her I’m doing fine. Is that all?” Malcolm knows he’s sounding defensive, but he’s tired of being treated like a child.

“No, that’s not it. You haven’t seen your therapist in three weeks.”

“I’ve been a little busy.” Malcolm smiles, trying to give the impression that he hasn’t been avoiding going for another reason. “I’ll go when I’ve got time.”

“Have you spoken to your dad recently?” Gil sways in his chair, turning his mug of coffee around on his desk.

Malcolm’s hand shakes. He puts it between his legs to stop the tremor.

“Not since he called at the crime scene.”

“You sure? Just with you being so certain about Redfern I got the feeling that maybe you’d been getting help, and we both know how your dad loves to force himself back into your life.”

Malcolm takes a breath. It’s weird lying to Gil, the man has been there for him for years, but despite his mother’s desire for him to see Gil as a father figure, and Gil’s own, Malcolm could never cross that line. 

“I can do my job without Dr Whitly.”

“I know you can. But I also know that he’s manipulative and dangerous.” Gil sighs and stands, perching on the desk and putting his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “I just want to make sure you’re ok.”

“Yeah, thanks... I’ll call my mother later.”

“Alright, I’m sure she’ll feel better once she’s spoken to you. She worries too.”

“Yeah.” Malcolm stands and steps closer to the door. They’d be a lot more worried if they had any idea what was really going on in his head. “I should... Dani and JT will be waiting for me.”

“Let me know if you find anything out. Redfern is running circles around us and I don’t like it.”

Malcolm nods and leaves Gil in his office to find the others.

Although he’s focused on the case, there’s no denying that Martin is on his mind all the time. They’d spoken that morning, another lie he’d told Gil, arranging to see each other that evening. It feels risky to be going to Claremont so often, and Malcolm considered trying to limit the amount of time he goes so that they don’t get found out. The consideration did not last long.

***

Martin doesn’t notice Malcolm come in, so engrossed in what looks like medical papers. He’s sitting hunched at his desk, fingers of one hand pushed into his curls, fingers of the other smoothing over the documents.

Malcolm likes seeing Martin like this. Times he can forget the dark side of his father and see the brilliant, sharply intelligent man that he is. They’re hard to separate, one couldn’t be without the other, and the dark and light make up Martin as a whole, but this is the man that Malcolm knew as a child. 

“Saving someone’s life today?”

Martin turns his head and smiles, creases deep beside his eyes. 

“Iliac vein compression syndrome.” Martin swings his chair to face Malcolm.

“Also known as May-Thurner syndrome?” Malcolm crosses the line and walks to the desk, hip pressed against the wood. 

“Very good,” Martin says, tapping an illustration. “I’m sending some notes to the doctor performing the surgery. Did you sleep well last night?”

Malcolm looks from the papers to his father. He has a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Almost five hours,” Malcolm says.

“Hmm, wore you out did I? Good to know.” Martin touches Malcolm’s waist, moving the flat of his hand to his lower back in a loose hug. “And how was work?”

“Dead end after dead end.”

“He likes control,” Martin says, standing up out of his chair, keeping a firm grip on his son. “He’s angry that you messed up his plans.”

“Me personally or the police?” Malcolm puts his head on Martin’s shoulder, enjoying the closeness.

“That I don’t know, my boy.” Martin kisses Malcolm’s forehead. “I’ll show you the article I found on him. And your gift too.”

With a squeeze, Martin let’s Malcolm go and pulls a file down from his bookcase. 

“Which do you want first? Hmm, maybe I better choose for you. Business before pleasure.”

Martin takes out a single page of an old newspaper and lays it on the desk. It shows a picture of Matty Pierce and Frank Redfern at some art show in Brooklyn. 

“They’re both very skilled, but all these symbols and overdramatised things they do the the bodies, hmm leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.” Martin points to a section of the article. “See where Pierce says that Redfern created him.”

“Yeah, not exactly something people say,” Malcolm muses, continuing to read.

“Did you bring anything for me to look at?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah...” Malcolm reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out copies of all of the artwork and photos of the victims found in Redfern’s apartment.

“How did you get Detective Arroyo to agree to this?” Martin starts to look through the photos.

“I didn’t,” Malcolm replies absently. “How many times does he say that they’re bonded? And that they met through destiny?”

“Quite the pair aren’t they?”

Malcolm hums, frowning. “It doesn’t say when they met, or how. How do you know that someone would be willing to become a partner in murder?”

Martin smiles. 

“Sometimes you just know it’s inside that person.”

Malcolms skin prickles, his fathers voice in his head telling him that they’re the same. Sometimes Malcolm wonders how right he is.

“So, what’s this gift you have for me?”

Martin reaches for something else off his bookcase, a brown card folder. He puts it down on top of the article. This time he doesn’t give Malcolm any room, Martin’s chest pressed to Malcolm’s arm. From that angle, it’s easy for Martin to lean forward to press a kiss to Malcolm’s neck, just above the crisp collar of his shirt.

“A memento of the evening,” Martin says, waiting for Malcolm to open the folder.

Slipping his fingertips under the card, Malcolm flips open the cover. Inside is a pencil sketch. It shows himself, legs spread in his suit, his erection jutting up towards his stomach. Like reality, Malcolm’s hands aren’t touching his cock, one is clenched on his thigh and the other has his shirt pulled open, one nipple on show being pinched firmly. Martin has even managed to show the start of dark bruising on Malcolm’s chest.

“Am I close?” Martin asks, kissing Malcolm’s neck again, nuzzling at his jaw.

Malcolm touches the drawing lightly, not wanting to smudge the lines. 

“Yeah... well, almost. I didn’t open my shirt.”

“Oh, mm, well we can call it artistic licence.” Martin slides his hand from Malcolm’s waist to his chest, stroking his thumb over his nipple. “Still sore?”

Malcolm nods.

“I took photos...”

“What?” Martin turns Malcolm’s chin so that they’re looking at each other. “What exactly did you take photos of?”

Smiling, Malcolm bites his lip. He wishes he’d had time to print the photos before his visit, but he’ll get around to it. He’s even thinking of keeping a few copies for himself. 

“Lots of things,” Malcolm replies.

“Such a tease. Don’t keep things from me, boy.” Martin kisses Malcolm again. “Start right at the beginning.”

***

Malcolm’s phone rings as he walks through the door to the loft.

“Ughh, who could this be, Sunshine?” Malcolm fills his birds seed and wedges his phone between his ear and his shoulder. “Hi, mother.”

“Oh, you do remember who I am?”

Malcolm closes his eyes and takes a breath.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been distracted with work and... sorry I haven’t called. How are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m more concerned about you.” Jessica sounds like she’s at home, no noise or chatter in the background from some party or charity function.

“Yeah, Gil told me. I felt like I was back at school. Please don’t get Gil to spy on me for you again.”

Malcolm goes to the fridge and looks inside. He almost closes the door but he can’t remember if he’s eaten since breakfast so he gets a yogurt and some fruit from the counter then goes to sit down.

“How else am I meant to see if my son is surviving?

“I’ll... I’ll try to call more.” 

“Hmm.” Jessica pauses. “Come for dinner on Friday. Your sister will be there.”

Malcolm rubs his eye and puts a spoonful of strawberry yogurt in his mouth. It tastes off.

“Sure, sounds good.”

“Wonderful, it’s a date,” Jessica chuckles. “I won’t keep you. Try to get some sleep, ok?”

“Ok, mother. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, darling.”

Malcolm hangs up and bins the yogurt. Opening his laptop, he starts to search for anything that could give them somewhere to start looking for Redfern. He goes over things he’s searched for before, just hoping to see something he might have missed. 

“He can’t be this good,” Malcolm says to himself. 

Frowning, Malcolm turns his attention to Matty Pierce. Maybe there’s something about Redfern’s student that will mean something.

“Worth a try, huh?” Malcolm looks at Sunshine. “Count yourself lucky you don’t have these problems.”

Attention focused on his laptop screen, the sound of Malcolm’s phone buzzing makes him jump. He sighs, really not in the mood to talk to his mother again tonight, especially if she’s calling because she forgot to ask if he’s going to see his therapist soon.

“I’m going to call her, I promise.”

There’s no reply, but there is some music playing, distant music but it’s there.

“Mother?” Malcolm looks at the screen, but Jessica’s number isn’t there, only an unknown. “Hello?”

The music gets quieter, like someone is moving away from it, and then the line goes dead.

“Hm, weird.”

Malcolm frowns, looking at his phone long after the call ended. A miss-dial probably.

He doesn’t dwell on the uneasy feeling that settles in his stomach.

***

“Hey, Dani.”

“Hey. What’s up?”

“What do you mean? Nothing.” Malcolm gives his best ‘I’m fine’ face, but Dani just lifts an eyebrow. “Uh, actually I was hoping for a favour.”

“Ok, what?”

“It’s probably nothing, a scam or something, but I was wondering if you could do a check on a number for me?”

“Oh, yeah I can,” Dani says, looking a little relieved, like she thought it’d be something more than that. “A lead?”

“No, no, just... I keep getting these calls and, I just wanted to know if it was someone trying to hack into my back details or whatever.” He doesn’t tell her about the strange feeling that lingers after the call ends, mainly because he thinks he’s just overreacting.

“How many have you had?”

“They started last week. They’re every day about the same time.” Malcolm takes a pen and a pad from a desk as he passes. “I’ll write the number down.”

“Or just give me your phone?”

Malcolm sidesteps quickly when Dani tried to take it from him. 

“I need it. Important stuff on here, you know, solving murder stuff.” Malcolm smiles. She’s going to have to knock him out if she wants to take his phone from him. 

“Uh, ok, fine. Give me the number and I’ll look into it, alright?”

Malcolm writes down the number and hands it to her.

“Don’t these crank calls usually have withheld numbers?” Dani pockets the paper and folds her arms.

“I guess? I don’t know, maybe it’s kids or something. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“You two, stop yapping and get in here.” Gil’s voice carries across the room, and everyone stops what they’re doing to look at him.

“Guess he means us,” Malcolm says, cheerfully.

Dani shoves his shoulder and they hurry to the briefing room.

***

The days drag on and on. Everyone is frustrated, and Malcolm is feeling the pressure because as solid as his profile is, they’re getting nowhere. It makes him feel responsible, and sooner or later Redfern will kill again.

The last thing he wanted to do was to go for dinner with his mother and Ainsley, but he couldn’t exactly cancel.

Not that he’s been the best guest. Malcolm has zoned out two or three times while his mother and sister have been talking, missing most of the conversation before scrabbling about to answer when they ask him something. It doesn’t help that the longer the evening goes on, the less time he’ll have at Claremont. Malcolm hasn’t seen Martin in person since he showed him the drawing, and he’d hoped that the dinner would have been a short one. No such luck.

“Malcolm?”

“Hm?” He looks up from his plate, the lavish looking desert barely touched. “Sorry, Ains.”

Malcolm picks up his medication from beside his water and takes it so that his mother can see. He shouldn’t feel the need to prove himself to her, but it’s easier to make her think he’s doing fine than for her to know the truth.

“I just said there’s someone at work I think you’d like. I can set it up if you want?”

“I think that sounds like a marvellous idea,” Jessica says, sipping some wine.

“I’m not really looking for anything... like that.” Malcolm drinks some more water.

“Oh shush, tell me about this woman,” Jessica says to Ainsley, leaning in like she’s about to hear some juicy gossip.

Malcolm doesn’t protest and lets them get on with it. It’s not like he can tell them he’s currently in a sexual relationship, ‘oh and it’s with dad by the way’. They’d be rolling out the red carpet for him into his very own padded cell.

He sighs and looks at his phone to see the time. There’s no missed call from the random number, so maybe Dani finally got around to blocking it. 

“The network is buzzing over ‘The Artist’”, Ainsley says, putting her hand on Malcolm’s arm to get his attention. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any insider information you can give me?”

“Other than what’s already public, no. Even if I did, you know I couldn’t tell you.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying,” Ainsley says, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “That was great mom, but I have to go. I’ve got a meeting.”

“This late?” Jessica protests.

“Yeah, I don’t have a nine to five job.”

“Neither do I,” Malcolm says, taking advantage of Ainsley’s exit. “I have to meet someone too.”

“Oh?” Jessica smirks.

“A potential witness to a murder, mom. Thanks for dinner.”

“Maybe you can both come again next week? Maybe you’ll even eat something next time, Malcolm?”

Ainsley kisses Jessica’s cheek and Malcolm does the same, not rising to the bait.

“Goodnight, mother.”

At the door, Ainsley gives Malcolm a hug and waves at him as she heads down the street, phone in hand. Malcolm waits until she’s out of sight before crossing the street, so she doesn’t see him walking in the wrong direction to home. 

Malcolm picks up his pace, wrapping his arms around himself against the wind, and sets his sights on the looming rise of the hospital in the distance.

***

It’s late by the time he gets to Claremont, and other than the guard at the front door Malcolm doesn’t see anyone. He’s let through to the corridor leading to Martin’s cell, and as he gets closer it looks like the door is already open.

Maybe David’s just brought Martin back from the shower block? Or he could be taking out the trolley that gets wheeled in when Martin has his meals? There’s any number of reasons the door could be open, but it’s the first time Malcolm’s seen it like that.

Malcolm frowns and walks closer. There’s an odd taste in the air, metallic almost.

“Dad?” 

Cautiously, Malcolm steps into the cell, all the blood draining from his face at what he sees.

Martins nurse is dead on his father’s bed, opened up from sternum to naval. The sheets around her are soaked in blood, dripping in little pat pat pats on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andy! I’m gonna be evil 😈


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you’re all safe and well :) thanks for reading!

“Fuck.”

Malcolm blinks. 

The body doesn’t vanish like he wants it to. Martin doesn’t appear in his chair, smiling that smile, like he wants him to. 

He’s gone.

Turning, Malcolm looks back down the corridor, but there’s no one to be seen. 

“Convenient,” Malcolm says to himself, realising now why that is. 

He closes the cell door, leaving it open just enough so that if anyone were to pass by they wouldn’t notice anything suspicious. 

A panic is rising, his chest tight with anxiety and fear. He has to call for help, needs to start looking for his father, but there are things he needs to do first. 

Starting with hiding all of the evidence of their relationship.

Malcolm hurries to Martin’s desk. There’s a book on the floor, pages bent, spine up. Martin’s chair is against the far wall, like it’s been pushed back. Definitely a struggle.

Carefully, Malcolm searches the desk, removing the data stick and any drawings he finds.

He’s about to start on the book case when he notices a smear of blood on the corner of the desk. It’s not transfer from the nurses body, it’s too neat, and Malcolm has no doubts who the blood belongs to. The sight of it chills him, but there could be more of it, so the hope that Martin isn’t badly hurt pushes him on.

Malcolm removes any more drawings he can find and then leaves the cell, heading to the room that contains the CCTV monitors. He needs to see what happened, and he has to erase the footage of his own arrival. 

“What the hell am I doing?” Malcolm mutters, his knee bouncing when he sits in the chair by one of the computers.

He nudges the mouse and the computer screen lights up, fuzzy static where the image of the corridor leading to Martin’s cell should be. The camera has already been disabled.

“Come on, come on...” 

Malcolm inhales. He feels like his lungs are burning. The days footage isn’t logged in the saved folders, and there are other days that are missing too. He scrubs his hand over his eyes and slumps back against the back of the chair. 

Taking out his phone he calls Gil.

“Hey, Kid. You ok? How was dinner?”

Malcolm looks down at the bundle of papers in his hand, his own seductive gaze staring back at him. He puts the papers into his jacket pockets.

“I need everyone to come to Claremont,” Malcolm replies, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

“Claremont? What’re you doing there? Please don’t tell me you were seeing your father.”

“A nurse has been murdered and...”

“And?” 

“Dr Whitly’s gone.”

There’s a loaded silence, and Malcolm’s heart pounds in his chest.

“Wait there. We’re on our way,” Gil says, firmly.

Malcolm starts to speak, but Gil has already hung up.

***

“He finally snapped then, huh?” JT folds his arms, looking at the body of the nurse with a scowl. “Surprised it took him so long.”

“I don’t think Dr Whitly did this,” Malcolm says. “There are signs of a struggle...”

“Yeah, between the surgeon and the nurse,” Dani adds, frowning at Malcolm.

“Her name is Colette Hay”, Edrissa says, chart in hand. “Oh, and the cause of death was a stab wound to the chest. The rest... he did it while she was dying. It takes a lot of force to do this. She’s almost cut in half.”

Malcolm closes his eyes and takes a breath. When he opens them, everyone is watching him.

“There’s blood on the desk. If someone came in here, they could have attacked Dr Whitly first, then attacked Collette.”

“How’d they get in here? Everyone has to check in and out. There isn’t anyone’s name in the system other than yours.” Gil looks pissed. “What were you doing here anyway?”

“I wanted my fathers advice. It’s unorthodox, I’m not stupid, I know what he is, but he understands. He listens to me.” Malcolm shakes his head, frustrated. Lashing out isn’t going to help. “It doesn’t matter why I was here. What matters is whoever was here before me must have planned it. The staff were in different parts of the hospital, away from my fathers cell...”

“You’re not serious,” Gil says. “Are you telling me that you don’t think Martin did this?”

“I don’t think he did, no. Gil... of course he’s capable of it, but it’s not right. He plans things meticulously, and the kill itself, it lacks... his style.”

“Looks pretty serial killer-y to me,” JT mutters. 

“You have to admit that it’s possible that he didn’t do it?” Malcolm presses. No one looks like they’re seriously thinking about it.

Gil sighs loudly and rubs his beard with one hand. 

“Is it possible? Yes. But, without any solid evidence that points us to anyone else committing this murder, we’re treating Martin Whitly as the number one suspect.”

“But, there’s...” Malcolm starts to protest, but Gil cuts him off.

“No. You need to step back from this.”

Dani and JT look awkwardly between Malcolm and Gil, like spectators at a boxing match.

“Step back? Don’t do this to me again, don’t stop me from doing my job. Just because you want this to be my father doesn’t mean that it is!”

“You lied to me, Bright. You’ve been seeing him, haven’t you? He’s been helping you tracking down Redfern.” Gil looks disappointed, but not really all that surprised. “You know how manipulative he is, and your judgement is clouded. You can’t be involved in this.”

Malcolm doesn’t know what to say, his mouth opening but nothing coming out. The sides of the cell start to push in on him, the grinding clatter of bricks being dragged over concrete. Malcolm can hear it as clear as if it were real.

“I need some air,” he says, turning quickly and leaving the cell, striding down the corridor and heading down another, then another. 

Malcolms mind is racing, time slipping through his fingers, and now he’s going to be kicked off the case when he needs to find who has taken his father. And why?

Stopping, Malcolm leans his head against the wall. It’s cool, helping to ease the throbbing inside his skull.

It just doesn’t feel random. Whoever this killer is, there’s a reason that they targeted Martin. 

“Where are you?” Malcolm whispers. 

Just then, his phone rings. The ominous vibration seems louder in his solitude, and there’s a sense of dread in his chest when he sees the same unknown number in the screen that he’s been getting for weeks. 

“Who is this?”

“Come on,” the voice on the other end says, amused. “You know who it is.”

“Frank?” Malcolm swallows, trying to calm himself. He’d suspected Redfern was behind Martin’s kidnapping, and he knows he has to stay calm if he’s going to get through to him. “Do you have my father?”

“Why don’t we talk about you for a while. You’re more interesting than I thought.”

“Frank, if this is about Matty, we didn’t have a choice...”

“Shut up! I’m asking about you.” Frank breathes heavily, sounding agitated. 

“Ok, ok... what about me?”

“You’re not like the others. Cops.”

“That’s right, I’m not a cop, I’m a profiler. You already knew that.” Malcolm isn’t sure what Redfern’s angle is, and all he wants to know is if his dads ok, but he has to tread carefully.

“I don’t mean what you are, I mean who you are. It’s almost a shame to kill you.”

Malcolm goes cold at Redfern’s words. He looks around, expecting Dani or Gil to come and find him any second, but there’s no one there.

“Why don’t you tell me where you are and we can talk? You can tell me what you mean.”

Frank is quiet for an agonisingly long time. Malcolm wants to scream.

“You come alone. No exceptions, understand?”

“I will.” Malcolm won’t risk Martin’s life by going the others, or even letting them know where he’s going. That is if Redfern even has his father.

“You don’t carry a weapon, so don’t start now. You need to buy a car, something old so you can’t be tracked. I’d be quick if I were you. I’ll call back with the directions.”

“Have you hurt him. Please, just tell me,” Malcolm pleads.

There’s more silence, and then the line goes dead.

***

The last thing Malcolm thought he’d be doing at almost nine thirty on a Friday night is banging on the door of some random persons house. He’d looked through a page of car ads on Craigslist and picked the one closest, taking a taxi to the address. He can’t even remember the make or model of the car. Not that it matters.

The owner, a construction worker called Dale, doesn’t ask questions. Malcolm is grateful, handing over cash with the little extra for calling so late. Dale didn’t even check to see if Malcolm has insurance or even a license before he’s closing the door on him.

Malcolm waits an agonisingly long fifteen minutes in the vehicle before the unknown number appears on the screen again.

“Hello?”

“Who have you been talking to? Your phone was busy.” Redfern sounds angry.

“No one... they’ve been trying to contact me.”

“Your team?”

“Yes,” Malcolm replies, as calmly as he can manage. “I haven’t told them anything. I got the car. Where are you?” 

“If you’re lying to me... I’ll make a beautiful mess of Dr Whitly.”

Malcolm goes pale, shaking as Redfern finally gives him the address before hanging up. 

His mind flickers the image of the dead nurse across his eyes, her blood soaking through the mattress and onto the floor. It’s not her though, not in Malcolm’s head. The beautiful mess lying on the bed is his father, his eyes open and pleading, but empty behind them.

***

Malcolm drives across the city, doubling back and passing Claremont. He’d strangely felt comfort whenever he saw it before, knowing that his father was in there. It was like a cornerstone, something solid that Malcolm could hang on to when things got rough. He never once imagined Martin not being there.

Gripping the steering wheel, Malcolm drives. His phone rings constantly. In the end he turns it off, no doubt Redfern will take it anyway, and besides, Malcolm doesn’t want Gil to be able to use the GPS to track him.

A needle stab of pain blossoms behind Malcolm’s eyes, his head pounding as thoughts fragment and twist in his mind. Images of what he might find when he arrives. 

He tries to put himself in Redfern’s shoes. He’s angry, grieving the loss of someone he’d moulded, and he feels like Malcolm is responsible. Regardless of the fact that Malcolm didn’t pull the trigger, he was the one that led them to Matty. Taking Martin is his act of revenge.

But, why Martin? It doesn’t bear thinking about but his mother or Ainsley would have been an easier target. Martin was in a high security facility, a fortress. 

“Oh my god,” Malcolm whispers.

He knows. Redfern knows.

“Fuck.” 

Has Redfern been watching him? Following Malcolm to Claremont? No, that wouldn’t tell him anything. Redfern must have been able to gain access to the hospital somehow. He could have gotten a job there? Faking being a doctor would be too risky for him, but domestic staff like a cook or cleaner wouldn’t. Most likely it’d be a cleaner or handyman, someone with access to the cells and can move around the hospital relatively freely.

Malcolm blows out a breath. Instinct makes him want to call the hospital to ask about new employees in the last few weeks, but that would mean switching his phone back on.

“That has to be it,” Malcolm says to himself. If Redfern worked at Claremont he’d be able to snoop around in Martin’s cell, see his drawings and even... he might have even heard the recording of them. 

It explains why he took the hard road and kidnapped Martin. The prize was greater. 

Martin means more.

The roads get quieter the further out of the city Malcolm drives. It’s unfamiliar and unnerving, but he supposes Redfern wants that. He wants Malcolm to be vulnerable, reckless, making mistakes that could cost them both their lives.

Redfern has underestimated Malcolm. He may be a lot of things, but he is his fathers son after all.

Anger is a slow burning flame under the weight of Malcolm’s fear, but the closer he gets, the more savage the fire becomes.

Relying on street signs instead of a satnav, Malcolm slows the car, making sure he doesn’t make any wrong turns that he can’t afford. Eventually, he sees the house, set back off the road and on its own like it’s the last of a line of houses being demolished. 

Getting out, Malcolm walks up the narrow path and tries the door. It’s unlocked, but there’s no one around to bother them.

The house is in darkness, but even so Malcolm can see that it’s still furnished. It looks like whoever lived there just up and left without taking anything. 

A faint whisper of music is coming from further inside the house. 

The kitchen maybe? 

Malcolm walks towards the sound. It’s something he’s heard before, muffled notes from the headphones his father wears. 

“Frank? I’m here.” 

Malcolm smooths his palm against the wall, hoping to find a working light switch, but before he can there’s a noise behind him. 

Strong arms wrap around him like a vice and suddenly the floor disappears... and Malcolm falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andy... it’s Martinis turn for a chapter 🥰


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being kidnapped was not how Martin had expected his evening to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello :) hope you’re all safe and well. Sorry it’s been a while posting, just had a writing block I guess, and I got distracted by some cowboys haha 
> 
> Anyways it’s a small chapter but I’m starting the next one now :)

He can’t touch the gash on his forehead because his hands are tied behind his back.

“Oh, great,” Martin grumbles. He’s locked in what can only be the trunk of a car, and while he’s been in worse places, it’s not ideal.

Martin scowls, then hisses. His ribs are bruised thanks to Frank Redfern’s brutish treatment of him, and his mouth tastes like blood.

Sighing, Martin can’t help but think about how this would never have happened twenty years ago. He’s a little more out of shape now than he was back then.

“Cut down on the afternoon cookies,” Martin says to himself, wincing as the car rattles over a pothole.

Not that Malcolm seemed to mind. In fact, Martin has a sneaky suspicion that Malcolm quite liked him with a little extra weight.

Another pothole, and Martin’s teeth clash together. 

“Hey! Maybe drive around the holes in the road!” 

Redfern probably can’t hear him, or is pretending not to. Either way it really is too disrespectful. Martin feels like yelling “don’t you know who I am?” But Redfern already knows and that just makes it worse.

Surely his notoriety as ‘The Surgeon’ would mean something?

Martin shifts and tries to loosen the ties around his wrists again, but no luck. 

“So, I’m being used as bait,” Martin mutters. 

It’s obvious who Redfern’s real target is and that he’s going to hurt Martin more to get to him. Malcolm took his protege away from him, ruined the perfect work they were creating.

If it wasn’t for the fact that it was his son that Redfern intends to murder, Martin would sympathise with the man.

He knows what it is to create a masterpiece and see it picked apart and analysed by people without the capacity to understand its beauty.

“My boy is too clever for you,” Martin says to himself. “This is not going to work out how you want it.”

There’s a turning and then another, and the car slows. Martin listens for anything he recognises, but the truth is he’s been in prison for so long now the streets aren’t as familiar as they once were, and he couldn’t guess their location if he had a gun to his head.

Closing his eyes, Martin pictures Malcolm, his eyes wide with fear and panic once he sees the mess Redfern left in his cell. Such beautiful terror. What a shame it is that Martin can’t be a fly on the wall to witness the aftermath.

Still, if he knows his Malcolm, and he absolutely does, he’ll be protesting Martin’s innocence. That team he works will no doubt will believe that Martin killed nurse Hay and escaped.

Martin snorts. They really are so small minded.

After a few more long and and uncomfortable minutes, the car slows to a stop and the engine cuts out. Redfern opens the trunk.

“Out.” He grabs Martin by the elbow and starts to haul him out of the car.

“It would have been just as easy to put me on the back seat,” Martin complains, awkwardly hitching his legs out until his feet touch ground.

Looking around him, Martin only sees houses bathed in darkness. They’re not somewhere remote, but there’s nobody around to notice anything out of the ordinary going on. Like a serial killer kidnapping another serial killer for example.

Redfern points to the door of the house and manhandles Martin forward.

Pushing him into the kitchen, Martin sees a door to what looks like a pantry.

“They built wine cellars in these houses. All bought by Russian’s hiding out from their people. This whole street fled in one night.” Redfern says, his mouth disturbingly close to Martin’s ear. “Rich people’s self indulgence. You know all about that.”

Martin is pushed through the door and down the stairs.

“Indulging in pleasure. I think you know all about that too,” Martin says.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Martin squints in the dim light. Redfern has set up a canvas in the corner, and an assortment of weapons along with some plastic sheeting.

“Watercolours tonight?” Martin jokes, and is released roughly from Redfern’s grasp, enough to be able to walk to the other side of the room. There are no windows, no other way out than the way they came in.

“Very funny. I was going to open Malcolm up and mix his blood with my paint, but after seeing just how close you both are...” Redfern drags a chair across the floor. “Now I’m going to mess him up first, remove parts of him. Not enough to kill him, but... enough to disfigure him for life.”

“Don’t... don’t talk about him like that!”

“Then I’ll take you away from him. Taking a father from a son... heartbreaking. But that’s not all you are, is it Dr Whitly?” Redfern switches on some music on an old radio, tuning the volume up.

“You’ve been working at Claremont, so you obviously know everything.” Martin’s words are clipped, trying for angry, but the growing fear inside him is obvious. 

“People may say I’m sick, but you two...” 

“You don’t understand. You can’t understand!” Martin glares, eyes wide like a trapped animal.

“If I’d stayed longer I’d have seen you fuck him wouldn’t I?”

“Shut up...”

“I’d have seen him beg you to break him more than you already have.”

“Shut up!” Martin lunges forward, but stumbles and falls to the floor, unable to cushion the impact with his hands tied behind his back. The wind gets knocked out of him, his chest slamming hard onto the concrete.

Above him, Redfern laughs. 

“What does he see in you?”

Martin cries out as Redfern presses the heel of his boot into his spine.

“Please... please don’t...” Martin gasps, his words no more than a breathless plea. 

“I did admire your work once, but you’ve lost your edge, old man.” Redfern removes his foot and pulls Martin onto his knees. “You’ve been out of the game too long.”

Martin nods, a trickle of blood running down his cheek.

“I have... you’re right...”

Redfern pushes Martin onto a chair, his burst of rage cooling a little. He wrings his hands together, a nervous twitch maybe, or it could be his desire to murder Martin right that second getting the better of him.

Martin knows that look in Redfern’s eyes. He’s seen it in himself. It’s a thirst that can never be satisfied. A taste of what it is to kill has to sustain them, left to feed on the memory of the act. Martin knows that very well.

“Tell me about him?” Martin asks, trying to buy time. He tests the cuffs behind his back, but they’re on so tight, no way of pulling his hands loose.

“Your son took him, that’s all you need to know.”

“You taught him well,” Martin continues, desperately trying to get Redfern to keep his mind from thoughts about hurting Malcolm.

“He was MINE! I made him!” Redfern balls his fists by his sides. “The artist he was becoming... such beautiful work. All gone... wasted...”

Redfern stalks up and down the room, his focus flitting back and forth between Martin and the blank canvas.

“He’s coming,” Redfern laughs. “I called him on the way here, he sounded very afraid.”

“Malcolm was doing his job, Frank! He... he wasn’t the one who killed Matty. Let him go... take me...” Martin sighs, defeated. “Your canvas is there. Why not make a start?”

Redfern stops pacing and turns, scrutinising Martin with an almost vacant stare. His tongue drags across his bottom lip.

“You’ve gotten weak in that poor excuse for a prison. You’ve gone soft, old man.”

“I could have you in a second,” Martin wheezes, cowering as Redfern towers over him. “Let me loose and we’ll see who can do the most damage.”

Redfern smiles, all teeth and cold black eyes. Without warning, he surges into Martin, sending the chair crashing backwards. Pulling the key to the cuffs from his pocket, Redfern leans closer to Martin’s face, his stale breath making him gag. 

“What will your boy think when he sees you like this, hm?”

Martin is flipped over onto his back, Redfern’s weight pressing him down against the cold floor.

“He won’t want your filthy hands on him then. Maybe I’ll have to show him what a true artists hands feel like...”

There’s a soft click, and Martin feels the bite of the cuffs loosen from his wrists.

“Finally...” 

Martin twists, swinging his elbow into the side of Redfern’s neck. He gets his knee up, catching Redfern between the legs, right where he wants to, hearing the man grunt in pain.

It gives Martin room to put his hands flat on Redfern’s chest, pushing him off him and onto the floor. The man coughs, spluttering and spitting with anger.

“For someone relatively intelligent you’re pretty gullible,” Martin laughs, wiping the blood off his forehead, smearing it on his cardigan. “You thought talking about my son would get me all riled up?”

Redfern groans and doubles over, Martin’s foot landing against his stomach.

“You weren’t entirely wrong. But just not the way you were hoping.”

Smiling, Martin notices the selection of blades laid out on a table by the wall.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have.” Martin’s fingers dance over the handles. He picks up a scalpel, touching the point to the pad of his index finger. “You made a mistake with that amateur you were grooming. He made you weak.”

“Shut up... ahhh...” Redfern cries out as Martin kneels on his back, wrapping one arm around his throat.

“You shouldn’t have wasted your talent on someone like that. Sometimes... that instinct needs to be bred.”

Martin drags the blade of the scalpel over Redfern’s corroded artery, keeping it flat so not to break the skin. 

“You’ve made it too easy... far too easy.” Martin turns the scalpel, smiling, but a noise stills his hand.

“I’m going to kill you both... I’m going to fuck-ah!” 

Martin slams Redfern’s head against the concrete, knocking him out and shutting him up. Only temporarily... for now.

Scrambling off Redfern’s limp body, Martin quickly restrains him with some cable ties he finds in a tool box, then quietly goes up the stairs, stepping into an alcove that would be used to hang coats. It serves as the perfect place to hide.

Excitement buzzes in his veins, his heart wildly beating with anticipation. Malcolm came for him. Martin knew he would. He never doubted him.

“Frank? I’m here.”

Malcolm walks cautiously, listening to the faint music from the basement. Martin sees him put his hand on the wall, feeling his way in the darkness. He’s heading towards the kitchen, not seeing the entrance to the basement yet.

Martin puts his hand over his mouth, suppressing a laugh. 

He moves forward, grabbing Malcolm from behind and making him lose his balance. Malcolm makes a sound as if he thinks he’s falling, scrabbling with his feet to find solid ground.

Martin’s back hits the wall and he puts his lips to Malcolm’s ear.

“You’re dead, my boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🍆🍑 Andy... it’s time


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Malcolm finally spend some time alone together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, I’m so sorry this took me so looooong to write!

“Dad?”

“Surprise!” 

Martin lets Malcolm go long enough for him to turn around.

“You look so shocked,” Martin says, chuckling, putting both hands high on Malcolm’s arms.

“You’re hurt... how did... how did you?” Malcolm looks at his father all over. Now that Martin has switched the lights on its clear that he didn’t come out of the altercation with Redfern unscathed. 

“Shh, I’m fine. Let me look at you.” Martin sighs happily and touches Malcolm’s face, his fingers running over Malcolm’s lips. 

Malcolm leans in, kissing Martin with a firm desperation. He makes a soft moan when Martin presses him against the wall.

“I thought he was going to...” Malcolm shakes his head and seeks out his fathers mouth again. He can’t believe they’re together, no chains, no guards, no cameras to restrict them.

“No, my boy, I wouldn’t let him do that. I couldn’t leave you, could I?”

Martin moves his lips to Malcolm’s jaw, up to the corner of his eye, kissing lightly over his forehead and back down.

“Is he dead?” Malcolm exhales.

“No,” Martin replies, unbuttoning they top of Malcolm’s shirt. “I tied him up in the basement. I thought we could figure out what to do with him together... later.”

Malcolm bites his lip. His instincts are torn. He wants to do the right thing and call for backup, have Redfern arrested, but...

“Malcolm?” 

Martin’s smile is wicked, his eyes wild and almost savage. Malcolm is drawn to him with every part of who he is, and they’ve been given a rare chance to have something that they may never get the chance to have again.

“Let me look at your forehead. Upstairs,” Malcolm says, leading the way.

Obediently, Martin follows, but isn’t able to resist crowding his son against the wall again when they reach the top of the stairs. Martin presses himself against Malcolm’s ass, his hands planted either side of him, pinning Malcolm down.

“I knew you’d come for me,” he says, his nose nuzzled into Malcolm’s hair behind his ear. “You should be rewarded. Would you like that?”

Malcolm nods and pushes back against Martin’s crotch.

“Are you nervous?”

Malcolm reaches behind, palming Martin’s cock through his hospital slacks.

“Not anymore.”

“Oh, my beautiful boy.” Martin drops his forehead against the top of Malcolm’s spine. 

They find a spare room at the end of the hall, clean and fresh looking, likely unused by the previous occupants. Martin walks Malcolm to the end of the bed, removing his jacket and tossing it aside. 

It’s so different to being in Martin’s cell, and Malcolm can’t decide what he wants to do more. He touches the curls at the back of Martin’s head, trails his fingertips up and down his neck. He doesn’t really notice his father undressing him until Martin laughs softly and moves Malcolm’s arms to his sides to slip his shirt off.

Martin looks down at him hungrily, biting his bottom lip and dragging a thumb over Malcolm’s right nipple.

“Talk to me, boy,” Martin says, mapping Malcolm’s chest and stomach with his eyes, like he’s seeing him for the first time. “We have all night. We can do anything we want.”

Malcolm puts his hand over Martin’s, the other he curls into the soft fabric of the cardigan he’s still wearing. He ignores the blood staining the cuff and looks into Martin’s eyes.

“I want to see you too,” Malcolm says, gasping when Martin adds more pressure to his nipple. His cock is taking an interest, hardening against his leg, and Malcolm feels desperate to rid himself of the rest of his clothes. Even more so to rid Martin of his.

Breaking contact, Martin steps back, never once looking away from Malcolm. He has no sense of shame or embarrassment as he strips, first the cardigan, then the scrub style shirt comes up and over his head. Malcolm takes it all in.

Martin’s chest has the same gray curl of hair that he has on his head, and it’s pleasing to look at. He can imagine Martin telling him that it’s distinguished. His chest and stomach are rounded, a little more than he remembers his father being, but there’s no getting away from the sexual appeal that Martin has. He’s a beautiful man. Malcolm aches to put his hands on him, feel the solid weight of his father, the thrill of his nakedness against his own.

Bending, Martin takes of the hospital shoes and socks, then takes off his slacks and underwear, standing back up proudly. His thick cock is heavy and full between his legs.

“Here, let me help you.”

Martin reaches for Malcolm’s belt, placing soft kisses to his face as he undoes it, opening the button and zipper of his pants next. Malcolm closes his eyes and Martin kisses each lid.

Pulling him close, Martin puts his arms around Malcolm’s waist, dipping his hand into the back of Malcolm’s pants and squeezing his ass. Malcolm holds his father, tucking his head under his chin. He can hear Martin’s heart beating through his chest, so steady, whereas his feels like a butterfly trapped in a glass.

Slowly, Malcolm rocks his hips forward, grinding against Martin’s cock. It’s nowhere near enough, but Malcolm doesn’t want to break the moment yet. They have so little time, and Malcolm has no clue how he’s going to explain his absence to the team, but he also finds that he doesn’t really care. Being with Martin... his dad, it’s all he’s ever wanted. It might only be fleeting, but he knows that they’ll make the most of it.

“Take your shoes off,” Martin says, giving Malcolm room to do so. He strokes Malcolm’s back while he does it, lazily jerking his cock as well.

Malcolm’s pants and underwear are the last to go, and Martin takes great pleasure pulling them down over the defined cut of Malcolm’s hips, the lovely curve of his ass. 

Martin sinks to his knees, pulling the clothing down to Malcolm’s thighs.

“Please...” Malcolm pants, putting a trembling hand on Martin’s head, gripping his hair tightly.

“My pleasure,” Martin says, smiling as he looks up at his son. 

He mouths Malcolm’s cock, kissing the sensitive skin and rubbing his beard along it. It draws needy moans from Malcolm, and Martin’s smile grows the more vocal Malcolm becomes. 

Licking the head of Malcolm’s cock, Martin takes his time, teasing and toying with his son. 

“Please... fuck, do it” Malcolm’s legs wobble, but he holds on to Martin’s shoulders to steady himself.

Opening his mouth, Martin pushes the head of Malcolm’s cock past his lips, sucking gently to begin with. Malcolm curses above him, moaning at every swipe of Martin’s tongue.

Malcolm watches his father with fascination, hungry for everything he’s getting but still wanting more. He thinks that even if Martin killed him, they couldn’t get as close as he wants them to be.

‘What if I killed you too?’ Malcolm thinks, tipping his head back as Martin sucks harder. 

The thought is arousing, disturbing, and terrifying all at once. 

Looking back down at the man on his knees in front of him, Malcolm entertains the idea for a while. He remembers a conversation they had at the prison, when Malcolm asked his dad if he could kill him. Martin’s reply isn’t ever too far from his thoughts, or the way his face changed when he listed each way he could do it just in that limited space.

And then Martin asked Malcolm the same question, his tone bordering on erotic. 

Malcolm feels the same way now as he did back then. Picturing the ways he could kill his father doesn’t create the same response as it would to a regular person. It only makes the bond they share stronger, more intimate.

Martin’s hand comes up to stroke Malcolm’s hipbone, his head bobbing with more intent now. Malcolm can’t help but touch himself too, feeling where his cock and Martin’s lips meet, the hollowness of Martin’s cheeks and the hint of himself through them.

His balls are tightening already, clenching towards his body as Martin devours him. 

Malcolm drags his fingernails over both nipples, shaking at the sensation. 

“You’re going to make me come already,” he pants, torn between need release and wanting to keep himself on edge as long as he can.

Martin sucks once, twice, then takes Malcolm in hand, twisting his fingers around his cock.

“Lie down,” he says, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth.

Malcolm obeys gladly. 

“I’m going to make you come, my boy. No, don’t worry,” Martin says, stopping the protest on Malcolm’s lips, “it won’t be the only time, I promise.”

“Ok,” Malcolm nods. “

Martin smiles and runs his hands up and down Malcolm’s legs. He kisses up Malcolm’s thighs, rubbing and scratching the delicate skin with his beard. 

“Oh god... yes...” Malcolm drops down fully onto the bed, lifting his arms above his head.

“Like how this feels?” Martin asks, deliberately nuzzling Malcolm’s legs with his mouth.

“Yeah... I... it feels incredible.”

“Mm, I’m learning more about you all the time,” Martin says, kissing Malcolm again and then sucking hard, drawing blood to the surface of his thigh. He looks at the reddish mark, putting his thumb over it and pushing it until Malcolm hisses.

Martin goes back and forth between gentle kisses, scratching drags of his beard, and sucking more hickeys all over Malcolm’s thighs. By the time he stops, Malcolm is a mess. 

“Please, make me come now,” Malcolm begs, his cock lying hard below his navel. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and sits up a little, making sure Martin can see him. “I want your mouth... I want to fuck it.”

Martin watches his sons already flushed cheeks darken.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Martin says. “Come here.”

Martin takes Malcolm’s hands and sits him up, getting him to shuffle down until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Martin kneels, holding Malcolm’s cock again and licking his lips.

“Fuck me,” Martin says, his voice so low it makes Malcolm shiver. “Fuck daddy’s mouth.”

“Oh, god...” Malcolm puts his hands around the back of Martin’s head, pushing him down. “Yeah, oh god, just like that.”

Martin hums, taking Malcolm into his mouth.

“You look... ah...” Malcolm thrusts up, testing how far Martin will let him, and how hard. “Wish I could film this.”

He moves his hips, trying to keep to a steady rhythm, but not succeeding. It feels too good, and he was so close before, Malcolm can feel his balls drawing up again as his orgasm starts to build.

Martin keeps humming, letting Malcolm do whatever he wants.

“Please... please daddy... uhhh...” Malcolm’s body jerks and he comes in Martin’s mouth. He cries out as the overwhelming pleasure of his orgasm hits, making him shake and cling onto Martin as each wave of it passes through him.

Martin swallows what he can, but eventually leans back, stroking Malcolm through the last of it. He touches his jaw and smiles, sweat beading on his forehead.

“No complaints?”

Malcolm laughs, breathing hard. He feels exhausted, but he knows they’re only just beginning.

“No complaints,” Malcolm replies. He wipes a drop of come from the corner of Martin’s mouth.

“Lie back down,” Martin says, standing, his erection still prominent between his legs. “I’ll be right back.”

Malcolm scoots back onto the bed, throwing his arm over his eyes and touching himself gently. His cock is so sensitive, but it’s filling again. Anticipation can be one hell of an aphrodisiac.

Martin returns a few minutes later, a strip of condoms in his hand.

“I found these in the bathroom cabinet. XXL... hmm, someone was kidding themselves,” Martin says, getting on the bed and kissing Malcolm’s raised knee. “These ones have handy sachets of lube stuck on them.”

Malcolm takes the packets and removes the lube, tossing the condoms off the bed.

“Are you saying I’m not XXL? I’m hurt,” Martin says, smirking.

Malcolm looks down at his fathers cock and shrugs. He pulls Martin down so that he’s lying on top of him. It’s the first time that they’ve been fully naked together, and it’s strange, but so addictive. Malcolm doesn’t know how they’re going to be able to go back to how it was before they had this.

“Not thinking sad thoughts, I hope,” Martin says, stroking Malcolm’s forehead. 

Malcolm shakes his head.

“No, it’s not important,” he replies, smiling softly. He really means it too. The only thing that’s important right now is them, and overthinking is just going to chip away at the small opportunity they have to be together.

“Hmm, that’s right. The only important thing now is you and me, and you telling me what you want. I’m going to have to work on you being more vocal.” Martin kisses Malcolm’s lips, his tongue pushing into his mouth to deepen it for a few moments before pulling away again. “And you can start by calling me Daddy more often... hmm, you have no idea how much I love hearing you say it.”

Malcolm looks dazed from the kiss. “I do it when you ask me to.”

There have been a few times that Martin has specifically told Malcolm to say it, but other than that...

“You don’t know you’re doing it? Oh, my boy, that’s even better.” Martin kisses Malcolm again, for longer this time, his legs settling between Malcolm’s so that their cocks line up. “I’ve asked you to, yes, but you say it... mmm...”

Martin whines into Malcolm’s mouth and starts to grind his hips. When Martin breaks the kiss again Malcolm touches his lips with his fingertips. 

“You know what I like?”

Martin shakes his head. “Tell me.”

Malcolm smiles. “When you call me “my boy”.”

“Hmm, is that so?” Martin looks pleased, kissing along Malcolm’s collarbone and thumbing his nipples. “It’s true though. You are mine, Malcolm.”

“Yeah... mmm...”

“Good?” Martin asks.

“So good... want...”

“Hm? Say it.” Martin replaces his thumbs with his mouth, sucking Malcolm’s nipples until they’re hard and pink.

“Want you to fuck me.”

“Now that I can do,” Martin replies, taking Malcolm’s face in his hands for another searing kiss. 

Malcolm wraps his arms around Martin’s shoulders, kissing back just as eagerly. 

Once again, it’s Martin who breaks it, closing his eyes and putting his forehead on Malcolm’s cheek while he gathers himself. 

Moving down Malcolm’s body, Martin sucks and bites a path over smooth skin and ridges of bone. Such a perfect body, Martin thinks, lost in every part of the sin he made.

Toes curling, Malcolm holds his breath. He can’t help but squirm as Martin’s tongue moves lower.

“Has anyone done this to you before?” Martin asks, pressing kisses dangerously close to Malcolm’s hole.

“No,” Malcolm replies. 

“Mm, good. You really are perfect,” Martin rubs his cheek against Malcolm’s thigh. 

Malcolm sighs, enjoying the scratch of his fathers beard somewhere so intimate. He can see the top of Martin’s head, soft curls, dark and light grey streaked with white. Malcolm hadn’t seen it change from the dark brown he remembers.

Martin keeps kissing Malcolm’s skin, teasing him with them, getting closer to where Malcolm wants his mouth but then giving his attention elsewhere. 

“Please...” Malcolm pleads, arching off the bed. 

Martin chuckles and spreads Malcolm’s legs wider with both hands, nuzzling his nose against Malcolm’s balls.

“I want you to touch yourself all over, boy,” Martin tells Malcolm. “Nice and slow. Understand?”

“Hmm, yeah... anything...” Malcolm takes a pillow from the other side of the bed and shoves it under his head. He needs to see as much as he can.

Martin’s lips are warm when they finally brush Malcolm’s hole. He makes a sound of pure pleasure, like Malcolm’s never heard him make before. He’s gentle, getting Malcolm used to the feel of it, soft licks of his tongue around the rim.

“Oh god...” Malcolm moans, stroking his right arm, goosebumps breaking out all over his body.

He keeps going back to his nipples, pinching and tickling them, the sting of pain shooting right to his groin. That, and the feel of his fathers tongue moving inside him has Malcolm sweating and panting and falling quickly apart.

“Fuck... can you...”

“Mm?” Martin stops what he’s doing and looks up the length of Malcolm’s body. He looks smugly satisfied. “You want more of this?”

Malcolm sits up quickly, his head spinning, but he can’t stand being so far apart anymore. He wants Martin to have him.

Kneeling on the bed, Malcolm moves closer, their erections lining up. Malcolm breathes out and touches the hair covering Martin’s chest. He kisses him then, starving for every press of their lips, the warmth from his fathers skin. He can’t take it much longer, need and lust burning like a white hot flame. Malcolm starts to turn, to lie down on his front, but Martin stops him, fingers hard enough to bruise Malcolm’s hips.

“Not like that,” Martin says. He guides Malcolm back so that he ends up sitting on Martin’s lap. “Like this.”

Malcolm shudders. God, his dad wants him to ride him. A wave of heat spreads over Malcolm’s face, but he’s not sure if it’s embarrassment or arousal or just a mixture of both. He feels exposed suddenly, like someone is going to pull back their veil of solitude and stop them. He’s scared that he’s going to lose his father before they’ve even...

Martin puts his hand under Malcolm’s chin, tilting his head up. 

“No one else is here.”

“I know...” Malcolm nods, shaking those thoughts out of his head. He wants this so badly, dreamed about it, gone crazy over it. Picking up one of the packets of lube, Malcolm passes it to Martin. “I need you inside me.”

Martin kisses Malcolm’s shoulder, teeth digging into his skin, marking him. 

He opens the packet, pouring some on his cock and the rest over his fingers. Martin slides two over Malcolm’s hole, slowly stretching him.

Malcolm lifts his ass up off Martin’s knee, flicking his damp hair out of his eyes. He pushes back against Martin’s fingers, easing them in deeper, and knowing that there’s something even better to come.

“So good,” Martin says, stroking Malcolm’s back and removing his fingers. He lines himself up and breaches Malcolm, watching the head of his cock disappear into his son. “My boy... my love...”

“Jesus, ahh...” Malcolm braces himself on Martin’s thighs. 

It’s tight, and the stretch isn’t comfortable, in fact it’s bordering on painful. Malcolm grits his teeth and tries to sit, forcing himself onto Martin’s cock.

“No, no... I’m not going to hurt you,” Martin soothes. He stills Malcolm and pulls out slightly, not all the way, but enough that the burning Malcolm is feeling is less. 

“I can’t wait,” Malcolm says, reaching back to put his hand around Martin’s neck. He draws Martin’s mouth to him in a kiss, the awkward angle not bothering either of them much. “Fuck me.”

Martin smiles against Malcolm’s lips.

“Say that again.”

“Fuck me,” Malcolm repeats. His nerves and fears have been pushed to the back of his mind. All that is left is the raw desire he’s kept hidden for so long. Malcolm doesn’t care if it hurts, he wants it to hurt, because that makes it real.

Martin seems determined for this part at least, to be as painless as possible.

He takes another packet of lube and tears it open, stroking up and down Malcolm’s spine before pouring more of the liquid on his cock.

“Breathe, Malcolm.” Martin presses in again, putting one arm around Malcolm to hold him steady. 

Malcolm holds onto Martin’s arm, needing an anchor, something solid to ground him. 

Little by little, he sinks down until agonisingly, Martin is fully inside him. 

“There, so good... oh, you feel so good. So perfect...” Martin bites at Malcolm’s earlobe, sucking it into his mouth.

Malcolm strokes himself back to hardness, rocking slowly to get used to the feel. It’s unlike anything he’s tried on himself before. His fingers and the stash of dildos he has under his bed can’t compare to this. 

Martin’s got his forehead between Malcolm’s shoulder blades. He makes broken moans every time Malcolm moves.

“Dad, please... I’m ready, please.”

Malcolm arches his back so that his ass sinks even lower onto Martin’s cock. He clenches around Martin when he lifts up, spurred on by his dads hiss of pleasure behind him. His own cock is leaking precome, as hard as if he hadn’t already come not too long ago. Malcolm absently wonders just how many times Martin will be able to tease an orgasm out of him tonight.

Mouthing at Malcolm’s jaw, Martin pulls him into another kiss. They start to move together, Martin thrusting harder until Malcolm is crying out with every slam of his hips.

“Look at you,” Martin pants, squeezing Malcolm’s pectoral in his hand. “Didn’t I tell you, Malcolm? I told you we’re the same. My son.”

Malcolm moans louder, the bed frame creaking as they fuck. Martin is a master at this, making Malcolm feel safe and utterly cherished, every word and touch is a worship that Malcolm has only ever had from his father. 

Fingers pressed deep into Martin’s forearms, Malcolm feels a warm pressure low in his groin every time Martin’s cock rubs against his prostate.

“Dad... “ Malcolm meets all of Martin’s thrusts with enthusiasm, but he doesn’t want it to end. 

Of course, that’s the moment that Martin lets go of Malcolm’s chest and puts his hand on his cock. It takes only a few strokes and Malcolm is coming again. He gasps, shocked at the sudden intensity, pulsing over his fathers hand and onto the bedding.

Martin keeps holding him until Malcolm stops shaking, then he loses any control he had, pushing Malcolm forward so that he’s got both hands on the mattress. 

Gripping Malcolm’s hips tightly, Martin slams his hips hard against his sons ass. His endearments stop and all Malcolm can hear is a feral grunting at his ear. 

This... Malcolm thinks, this is what Martin has been waiting for. He’s finally as close to him as it’s possible to be. Physically anyway. Martin has been closer. The voice in Malcolm’s head has always been there. Martin is with him in every fibre of who he is.

Martin is a strong, unrelenting force. Malcolm is straining not to collapse under their combined weight, but Martin sweeps an arm around his waist and won’t let go, won’t let up, fucking with a kind of crazed fever that Malcolm can only think someone capable of murder would do. The thought makes Malcolm’s cock twitch, a weak pulse of come dripping onto the bed.

Malcolm’s heart thumps against his ribs, racing wildly.

“Don’t stop... please... ah!” Crying out, Malcolm feels Martin’s hips break their rhythm, erratic now that he’s close.

It hits him then, punches the air right out of his lungs. Martin is going to come inside him, claim him in a way that they can never go back on, or push away like a memory they’d rather forget. It’ll be permanent. 

Martin shudders against Malcolm’s back, grinds his hips forward and moans, coming with sharp little thrusts until he finally stills.

Sitting up, Malcolm clenches, feeling his fathers come leak out of him as Martin’s cock softens. He reaches around to touch it, rubbing his fingertips against the sticky liquid and sliding one finger into his ass.

“Ah, ah...” Martin pants, another shudder passing through his body.

“Too much?” Malcolm asks. 

“Mm-mm, no, keep going.” Martin moves slowly, pulling out just a little and then spreading Malcolm open again. “Put your finger in your mouth.”

Malcolm blushes, but does it. He can see the pearly white come coating his finger and doesn’t hesitate to suck it against his tongue. 

“Filthy,” Martin chuckles, but he sounds more aroused than amused. He places one large hand low on Malcolm’s stomach. “I’m not done with you yet, my boy.”

“I hope not,” Malcolm replies, reaching back to run his hand through his dads curls.

Martin laughs again, taking himself in hand and pulling out of Malcolm.

“You need cleaning up, son.” Martin says, stroking Malcolm’s thighs and his ass, down his thighs and up again. “Bend over for me.”

“What’re you...”

“Hm, you’ll see. Bend over and open your legs wider, that’s it.” Martin smiles at Malcolm’s compliance.

Martin’s tongue is hot against him, lapping up the come still leaking from him. 

“Oh, Jesus... oh, ahh...” Malcolm drops his head to his hands, thighs shaking as his father eats him out. 

Martin moans and rubs Malcolm’s calf with his hand. 

“Such a good boy.”

***

Malcolm doesn’t know how long they lie together, not speaking, just holding each other, looking at each other, being together. Martin strokes Malcolm’s hair and his arm, runs his fingers over his lips.

Eventually though, calls of nature and a rummage through the fridge for bottles of water gets them out of bed, for the time being at least.

When Malcolm walks back into the bedroom his father is wearing a thin robe, probably found in the master bedroom. 

“Who has candles but no matches,” he says. “Thought we could have a little mood lighting.”

Malcolm smiles, feeling chilly at being so unashamedly naked so he pulls back the rumpled covers and gets back into bed, putting the water on the table beside it.

“I think I have a lighter in my pocket.”

“You don’t smoke,” Martin replies, looking at Malcolm and then scanning the room for the suit jacket.

“No, but they come in useful sometimes.”

“Like now. Ah! Here it is.” Martin retrieves the lighter and lights a few candles, some he must have gotten when he found the robe, then switches the small lamp off. “Much better.”

When he puts the lighter back into Malcolm’s pocket, he pulls something else out, an envelope that pulls at his memories. It’s got a little sketch on the back, an anatomical heart, and on the front is a name, written in Martin’s own hand. 

Malcolm

Martin looks towards the bed, and Malcolm averts his eyes quickly. Martin’s curiosity isn’t enough to want to break the bubble they’re in, so he puts it back into Malcolm’s jacket and clears his throat. It’ll keep for another time.

“I could use some of this water,” Martin chuckles, waggling his eyebrows as he drinks.

“You? I think you’ve worn me out more than I have you,” Malcolm laughs.

“Hm, we’ve got time to change that,” Martin adds, no doubting the suggestiveness of his words.

“Oh, yeah? Hmm...” Malcolm smiles.

Martin leans down and kisses Malcolm gently, their lips moving over the others, languid and soft. 

Malcolm hooks his fingers around his fathers, pulling him down so that he’s lying almost on top of him.

“I love this boldness in you,” Martin says, cupping Malcolm’s cheek and then letting his hand roam. 

Malcolm’s skin is like a drug to him, he can’t seem to stop touching every part, relearning things he’s missed and making them his own again. Malcolm is so responsive, turning his head so that Martin can stroke his neck, lifting his arms for Martin to kiss his wrists.

Slowly, agonising so, Martin eventually slips his hand beneath the duvet.

“Dad...” Malcolm squirms, his cock taking an interest, but he’s already come twice, there’s no way he can again.

“Do you...” Martin leans down to kiss Malcolm’s nipple. “Do you ever touch yourself but don’t let yourself...”

Martin’s sentence is cut off when he seals his lips around Malcolm’s nipple again, biting enough to send a jolt of arousal down Malcolm’s body. He knows what he’s asking though.

“Edging? Mm, yes, sometimes. Ahh...” Malcolm hisses when Martin’s fingers brush the head of his cock. 

“That is interesting,” Martin says. 

He props himself up on one elbow, using his tongue to tease and lick Malcolm’s nipples, knowing how much he responds to it. One day he’s going to have to see how quickly he can make Malcolm come from just giving them attention and nowhere else.

“Very interesting,” Martin continues, running his hand up Malcolm’s cock, leaving it twitching in it’s wake.

Malcolm exhales and kicks his legs until the duvet is pushed down to his feet. 

Martin strokes Malcolm’s thighs, gently touching his balls, then takes his hand away. Malcolm whines at the back of his throat, tipping his head back against the pillow. He clutches at Martin’s arm until he finds his hand, linking their fingers together.

It goes on like this, each time Martin puts his hand on him, Malcolm thinks it’s time, that he’ll finally get the friction he craves, but Martin is ruthless.

“Please, please let me...” Malcolm begs, biting his lip when Martin briefly drags his nails up Malcolm’s cock.

“I don’t know...” Martin says, smiling, his tongue running over his bottom lip. “This is fun.”

“Mmm.” Malcolm arches his back, crying out at the pleasure of Martin’s hand wrapping around him, stroking him with a firm grip.

This time though, Martin doesn’t let go. Thrusting up into Martin’s hand, Malcolm breathes heavily through his nose, sweating and writhing and it’s too much, too good. Squeezing Martin’s hand, Malcolm feels the wave of his orgasm rise from deep inside, spreading through him until his balls draw up and he comes. 

There’s only a little evidence of it on Martin’s fingers, but Malcolm is still trembling long after, his whole body aching and his vision going blurry.

“Beautiful,” Martin says, sighing contentedly and pulling Malcolm against him. 

Malcolm moves so that he’s lying on his side, tucking his head against his fathers neck. Their hands are still joined, and Martin brings them up to his mouth, kissing Malcolm’s knuckles. 

“I don’t want to sleep,” Malcolm says, his exhaustion betraying him. They don’t have much time though, and sleep would be wasting the little they do have. “Talk to me.”

“What about?” Martin replies, his lips against the back of Malcolm’s hand.

“Anything. I just want to hear you talking. Please.”

“Ok, my boy, whatever you want. There’s so much I could tell you, hmm, what should I start with. How about the time when I taught you all about...”

But, Malcolm doesn’t hear anymore, only the strong beat of his fathers pulse beneath his skin, and a distant clock, and then for once in his life, he falls into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andy... have I nearly finished a fic?! Who am I?! I better not jinx it and let it become another casualty of my many, MANY, unfinished fics hahaha!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry this took so long to write!

Malcolm wakes in his fathers arms.

“Hmm, how long have I been asleep?”

“Not long, a few hours,” Martin replies, kissing Malcolm’s temple. “You needed it.”

Malcolm sighs and turns, his foot hooking over Martin’s calf. Time is passing too quickly, and a strange panic is beginning to creep under Malcolm’s skin.

“You know... there are plenty of places we could go, if we wanted to disappear.”

Martin’s talking in that way he does, half convincing and half manipulating, and completely charming so that you never quite know what to believe.

It doesn’t work on Malcolm though. He’s always known the meaning behind his fathers words. Right now, he sounds afraid, and Malcolm isn’t going to ruin the few hours they have left by telling him it’s impossible.

“Where could we go?”

“Hm, somewhere remote,” Martin answers, snuggling down more in the bed, keeping Malcolm close. “Live off grid for a while, move state, find a small town. Not everyone knows my face.”

“Yeah... I’d like that...”

“We’ll have to get rid of our old friend Frank. Bury him somewhere on the way to wherever we end up.”

Malcolm swallows, turning onto his back and then sitting up. 

“Dad...”

“Don’t worry, Malcolm. It’ll be quick.” He puts his hand on Malcolm’s back, comforting and protective. “Look at me.”

Malcolm does, opening his mouth when Martin kisses him, accepting his tongue, accepting everything. He wouldn’t try to stop Martin from killing Redfern. All Malcolm isn’t sure of is if he’d stop himself.

Pulling away, Martin holds Malcolm’s face in his hands. They’re always so steady, part of being a brilliant surgeon, Malcolm thinks, but they’re a killers hands as well as a saviours. 

Maybe that’s why they feel so good.

Kissing Malcolm’s closed lips a few times, Martin gets up out of bed.

“Where’re you going?” Malcolm watches his father slip on his hospital scrubs.

“I’m just going to check he’s still breathing. And I’ll see if there’s anything worth eating in the kitchen,” Martin says, leaving without saying anything more.

Malcolm rolls onto the space now empty beside him, tucking his hands beneath the pillow. His body aches, bruised and tender, and he knows that whatever happens next, it’ll be a long time before he forgets the feeling of his father inside him.

Reaching behind him, Malcolm teases his fingers just below his asshole, light touches that make him gasp into the crook of his other arm. He hopes his dad hurries back.

A crashing sound startles Malcolm, and he sits up quickly, swinging his legs out of bed and listening. It came from downstairs... or from the basement.

“Shit...” Malcolm grabs his boxers and his T-shirt and rushes to the top of the stairs. Another crash and a pained cry, and he’s taking the steps two at a time. When he gets to the door to the basement Malcolm pauses and listens again, trying to slow his breathing.

He can hear Martin talking, words that sound faintly like begging. 

Martin had gone to kill Redfern, Malcolm’s sure of that, but something’s gone wrong. 

Slowly, Malcolm reaches the foot of the stairs, pushing open the door.

“Malcolm, no!”

Martin is hunched against a steel cabinet, one hand clutched to his chest. Malcolm can see blood seeping through Martin’s fingers.

“Frank... I know you’re angry.” 

Malcolm raises his hands and tears his eyes away from his father. Redfern is wide eyed, holding a knife out in front of him. He looks dazed.

“You don’t have to do this.” Malcolm edges over to Martin, putting himself between him and Redfern. He can’t tell how badly Martin is hurt, but if someone as strong as Redfern overpowered him, he’s guessing pretty badly.

“You need to suffer like you made me suffer,” Redfern says, a tear streaking path through the dirt on his face.

“You don’t think I suffer? Killing him... it would...” Malcolm shakes his head. He can’t even lie about it. Not when the truth is that it’d devastate him.

“Malcolm, go... ahhh,” Martin hisses and pitches forward in pain.

Redfern sees his opportunity and lunges, crashing in to Malcolm’s shoulder and knocking him to the ground. The concrete slams against his knees and he cries out in pain. 

Martin is trying to wrestle a knife out of Redferns hand, holding the blade even as it slices his palms.

“He has to pay for what he took from me!” Redfern roars, pulling the knife backwards so that Martin has to let go.

Time seems to slow down. Malcolm reaches up to put a hand on the table, hauling himself to his feet. He looks down, the handle of a boring tool within reach. He curls his hand around it.

He can hear the rush of blood in his ears, deafening him to any other noise in the room. It should disorientate, but it only adds to the pinpoint focus he has.

One step, and another, Malcolm puts one arm around Redfern’s neck, yanking him away so that the knife aimed at his father misses by only an inch or two. 

Redfern makes a sound like a wounded animal, frantically trying to take Martin’s life. And Malcolm is losing his grip on him.

Malcolm’s thoughts scream at him. Don’t make me do this! Please, not this!

But, then he sees his fathers eyes.

It’s that same look he had when they were talking about if they could kill each other. A dark, hunger that had excited Malcolm back then. Excited and terrified him. He hadn’t wanted to believe that he could. Didn’t let himself want something so depraved.

Malcolm looks into Martin’s eyes and plunges the tool into Redfern’s neck. He remembers his dad teaching him about the carotid artery, and knows exactly where it is. Blood, so hot, spills into Malcolm’s hand. He won’t ever forget how it feels, the life of Frank Redfern pouring out of him.

Redfern jerks and shakes like a fish on a hook, his gasp a liquid sound as the blood travels up his throat and out of his mouth.

He starts to fall backwards, taking Malcolm with him, but Martin is there suddenly, tearing them apart and releasing Malcolm’s grip on the tool.

Redfern lands heavily, his knife clattering against the concrete floor. He puts his hands around his neck but the blood keeps coming. Malcolm doesn’t jump when Martin’s arms encircle him from behind.

“Wonderful isn’t it.” Martin exhales, a charged shudder of breath that makes Malcolm’s heart race. “Watch his life slip away in front of your eyes, my boy.”

“He was going to kill you,” Malcolm says. He isn’t sure what else he can say. That he might have done it even if Martin wasn’t in danger. That the feeling of the metal piercing Redfern’s neck was more exhilarating than anything he’s ever felt before. He’s pretty sure Martin can hear what he’s thinking. His dad always can.

“It’s ok,” Martin soothes, as Redfern continues to bleed out on the floor. 

The pool of blood is spreading, a red halo around his head. Redfern coughs and a fine crimson spray stains his shirt.

“You should get closer, Malcolm.” Martin uses his body to move his son forward towards Redfern. “This is something you’ll never forget.”

Malcolm kneels down next to Redfern’s body. The man is too far gone now to reach out for help, and Malcolm knows it’s too late to save him. His breaths are shallow and wet sounding, his lips slick with blood.

“I’m not like you, dad. I’m sorry...” Tears fall into Malcolm’s cheeks and he grabs at Martin’s hands now warm and solid on his shoulders. Martin hisses with pain as the cuts from Redfern’s blade open up again, leaving more blood on Malcolm’s shirt.

“Shhh, it’s alright. I’m proud of you... Malcolm, you have no idea how proud.”

Redfern wheezes, and Malcolm doesn’t turn away when his eyes roll back, or when his chest stills. He did that. He killed a man. It’s inside him now and it won’t ever go away. Malcolm wants to laugh, wants to scream, but he just sits and watches the body, motionless.

“Come on, boy. Up you get.”

Martin gets Malcolm to his feet, holding him steady so he doesn’t slump back to the floor.

“You’re in shock, but we can talk about it when we’re somewhere safe. Hm, were going to have to do a little staging here... not to mention cleaning up upstairs.” Martin cups Malcolm’s cheek from behind and steps away, getting a cloth and placing it around the handle of the weapon still in Redfern’s neck. He wipes it firmly, ridding it of any fingerprints.

Malcolm leans heavily against the workbench, letting it hold his weight. He watches, numb, as his father starts to cover up what they’ve done... what he’s done. Martin thinks they can leave, and live, but Malcolm can already tell that he’s scared. If they get caught, and they will, they won’t ever see each other again. 

That can’t happen.

Malcolm stands up, his legs shaking, but he takes a deep breath and slowly moves towards Martin. He’s still talking about making their escape, wiping down surfaces, and his guard is down.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm says, his voice barely louder than a whisper, then puts his arm around Martin’s throat.

Malcolm has done many kinds of martial arts, trained in different fighting styles, and despite his slim build, is stronger than people expect him to be. He also knows the quickest way to render someone unconscious by cutting off the blood supply to their brain.

Martin’s fingers dig into Malcolm’s arms, and he gasps, trying to breathe as Malcolm puts more pressure on his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm repeats, holding on as tight as he can, because he might be strong, but Martin could overpower him easily.

Bringing his shoulder down, Martin thrashes enough that he can twist his head and look into Malcolm’s eyes. His face is turning red, confusion set deep in the lines on his forehead. When he does look at Malcolm though, the fight goes out of him.

“Please understand,” Malcolm says, the words strained with exertion. The muscles in his arms burn as he keeps squeezing. “I love you.”

Martin’s brow draws together, his mouth open as he tries to draw breath. Malcolm thinks he sees him nod, but he can’t be sure, and Martin is turning his face away again so Malcolm keeps on squeezing, jamming his foot against a chair for more leverage.

Pressing his face against Martin, Malcolm kisses his head, his lips brushing his grey curls before they meet skin. It feels final somehow, and a bigger betrayal than when he called the police on his father as a a child. Malcolm doesn’t expect forgiveness, so he doesn’t ask for it, even as Martin slips into unconsciousness.

Falling to his knees, Martin collapses, bringing Malcolm down on top of him. Malcolm quickly checks that Martin is still breathing before he rolls onto the floor, taking big lungfuls of air, and shaking so much he has to wrap his arms around himself to try to stop it. 

There’s a numbness creeping around all his senses. He can’t fall apart yet... there’s too much to do. Starting with putting some cable ties around Martin’s wrists.

With all the strength he has left, Malcolm gets to his feet. Every step is like he’s dragging a heavy weight, but eventually Malcolm makes it back to the bedroom. His phone is blank when he finds it, and after he switches it on there are dozens of buzzes as the missed calls and messages finally get through. Malcolm ignores them.

He finds Gil’s number and hits call.

***

“Kid?”

Malcolm keeps his eyes on Martin. 

“Hey, Bright? Are you ok, kid?”

Gil’s hand moves in front of Malcolm’s vision. Other people are there too, some he recognises, some he doesn’t. It’s hard to focus on anything.

“Are you hurt?” Gil grumbles something else Malcolm doesn’t catch. “I need a medic here.”

“I’m not hurt,” Malcolm says. The words feel like glue in his mouth. “He tried to, but...”

“Who tried to? Your father?”

Malcolm looks at Gil, sees his anger, his hatred for Martin, and he understands it. He’s never understood why Malcolm could never let him go.

“No... Frank tried to kill me. Is my father alive? I didn’t kill him did I? I just had to...” Malcolm takes a breath, his eyes closing then opening slowly. He’s so exhausted, his head struggling to keep up with the events of the last few days.

Gil sighs and nods, standing up and touching Malcolm’s shoulder. Malcolm hadn’t even realised that Gil had knelt down beside him.

“He’s alive,” Gil replies, though it’s clear that he’s not happy about that fact.

“What the hell happened here, boss?” JT moves next to Gil, folding his arms. 

“Malcolm...” Dani closes her mouth, concern evident on her face. She doesn’t know what to say to him, or if she does, she’s forcing herself not to.

“We need to get you out of here so you can be processed and examined,” Gil says, solemnly. “You’re going to have to give them your clothes.”

Malcolm must nod, because Gil squeezes his shoulder again. They all look around when the medics lift Martin onto a stretcher.

Malcolm stands, ready to go with his father, but Gil stops him.

“There’s another ambulance for you.”

Malcolm wants to protest, insist he goes with Martin, but he has to go along with what Gil wants. 

“Let me help you.” Dani comes closer, taking Malcolm’s hand. She’s wearing gloves like Gil, so she doesn’t disturb any evidence.

They leave the basement, the house filling with police. 

“Did Redfern drive you both here?”

Malcolm turns to Gil, frowning.

“Yeah, that’s the car,” Malcolm says. 

“And you were at Claremont?”

The way Gil says it makes it seem like he’s asking casually, but Malcolm can see the question in his eyes. He’s suspicious, and to be honest Malcolm isn’t surprised. 

“I wanted to know if Dr Whitly had kept something from us about Redfern. He didn’t, by the way.” Malcolm leaves Dani’s side and let’s the medics and forensic officers take over. 

“Alright,” Gil sighs. “I don’t want to push you. You’ve been through a lot, and you’re in shock, I’ll come to the hospital when we’re done here.”

“Ok... thanks, Gil.” Malcolm gets into the ambulance, only breathing out once the doors are shut. He had to get his story together, but all he can think about is Martin and the last time they looked at each other. 

***

It’s dawn by the time they finish with him at the hospital. Malcolm had refused the suggestion to call his mother or Ainsley, but had let Dani take his keys to go and get him a change of clothes.

When Gil pokes his head through the door, Malcolm is putting his hospital gown on the bed.

“I’ll take you home,” Gil says, his hand patting the back of Malcolm’s neck.

“I’ve got to make a statement,” Malcolm replies. Even to his own ears he sounds weary.

“It can wait a few hours. You need to get some sleep”

“You know that won’t happen,” Malcolm says, following Gil to his car. “I just want to get it done.”

“Alright. At least the station will be quiet. I need a drink.”

They don’t talk in the car, and Malcolm looks out of the window without seeing anything. 

The nurses had asked about the bruising on his thighs and hips, needing to know if he’d been assaulted. All he’d said was that it had been from a previous night and that it wasn’t related, but he’d felt himself trip over his words and neither nurse looked particularly convinced. 

Malcolm can still feel the press of his fathers fingers. The way he’d held on to him so tight while he’d fucked him. Malcolm wanted more pain, more bruises, wanted to be covered in them so he’d always be able to feel him. 

He doesn’t know when he’ll be touched by Martin again.

When they get to the station, they go into Gil’s office, and Gil pulls a bottle of bourbon and two glasses from the bottom drawer of his desk.

Malcolm accepts a glass, but the smell of it makes his stomach turn.

“Before anything official gets put down... is there anything you want to tell me?”

Gil sits back in his chair, crossing his legs and waiting.

“What do you mean?” 

Gil’s eyebrows lift slightly and he downs his drink.

“You tell me.”

“Gil... what is this?” There’s no way that Gil can know anything about what really happened, but he’s not a stupid man. Malcolm does feel guilty about lying to him, but if it’s a choice between protecting his father and being loyal to Gil, then there really isn’t a choice. 

“Look, I’m not accusing you of anything, but we both know how manipulative Martin Whitly is. He’s denying all knowledge of what happened and you...”

“He’s awake?” Malcolm interrupts, sitting up straight.

“He woke up in the ambulance,” Gil continues. “Other than being knocked around by Redfern in his cell, everything else is a blank apparently. His prints were on the murder weapon, so...”

“My father killed Frank Redfern,” Malcolm says, the lie slipping off his tongue easily.

“Why don’t you start from the top? Take your time.”

“I was going to see Dr Whitly about the case. I thought maybe he was keeping something from me to make me go back there.” Malcolm pauses, pushing his sleeves up past his wrists. “Redfern grabbed me and the next thing I knew I was being dragged to his car.”

“I got a call from Claremont, the CCTV footage was wiped,” Gil says.

Malcolm frowns. “Redfern?”

“Seems so, yeah. You didn’t go inside?”

“No, he grabbed me before I got to the entrance.”

Gil nods. “Go on.”

“He tied me up and drove. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“He didn’t gag you?”

“No,” Malcolm says. “No one would have heard me anyway.”

Gil sighs. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Malcolm clears his throat.

“I didn’t know that he had my father in the trunk until we got to the house. He’d been drugged.”

“The doctors think it might have contributed to his memory loss,” Gil says. “It’s a little convenient don’t you think?”

“He... he doesn’t remember anything? At all?” Malcolm hadn’t expected Martin to tell the police everything that went on, but maybe he wants to forget it. Malcolm has stupidly thought that Martin understood why he was doing what he did, betraying him... but, maybe his father saw it differently.

“Like I said, he’s saying nothing.”

Malcolm looks down at his hands. 

“So, what happened when you got to the house?”

“He took us into the basement.”

“Just there? No other rooms?” 

“No,” Malcolm answers. “Just the basement.”

Gil nods again, not saying anything more. 

“He tied us both up, started to rant about how I ruined his plan and killed Matty Pierce, and how he had to punish me.”

“Why didn’t he? He had hours.” 

“I did my job, Gil.” Malcolm feels the familiar wave of annoyance at being doubted. Gil, the whole team, want him to work with them but question him on everything. Malcolm might be lying through his teeth now, but he’s always treated like a whack job who needs babysitting. “I talked to him, tried to understand what he was trying to achieve with his art. He saw the murders as art.”

“Ok, but something went wrong.”

“He was an erratic man, most likely suffering from psychosis. Pierce was his anchor to reality and when he died, Redfern had no connection to it anymore.” Malcolm rubs his eyes. “I was getting through to him.”

“Well, if anyone could it’d be you,” Gil says, smiling. “What was Dr Whitly doing during all of this?”

“He was...” Malcolm frowns.

“I know this is hard,” Gil says. “Do you want some water instead?”

Malcolm sees Gil look at the untouched bourbon and shakes his head.

“I’m ok. Dr Whitly was pretty beat up, and whatever Redfern gave him just kept him quiet.”

Gil’s eyes narrow slightly, and for a second, panic seizes Malcolm like a shock of ice water. What if Martin has been talking, and Gil is seeing if their stories match up. Malcolm’s hand starts to tremble, but he clamps it under his leg.

No, it can’t be that. Gil has no real reason to suspect him of anything. He doesn’t know how often he’s been seeing his father, or what they’ve become. If Gil is suspicious, it’s a gut feeling, nothing more.

Malcolm takes a breath and decides alcohol might be a good idea right about now. He drinks half the glass then puts it back on the desk.

“So, you talked to Redfern, calmed him down, then what? How did it go from that to him ending up dead and Dr Whitly unconscious?”

Malcolm shifts in his chair. It’s the part of his story that he’d been dreading telling. It feels weak, not plausible, but he has to make Gil believe him.

“He’d tied my hands with a cable, but I’d been loosening it while I’d been talking to him. The cable was coated with plastic I think, I don’t know, but I could feel the knot giving.”

“We found the ties on the floor,” Gil says. “He used cable ties on Dr Whitly. Strange to use two types of bonds.”

“I don’t think he was intending to have two hostages, Gil. He got a job at Claremont to be able to take my father. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He just used whatever he had, I guess.”

“Yeah. Ok, go on, you were getting your hands loose, how did Dr Whitly get free?”

“I asked Frank for some water and he agreed. I got my hands free and grabbed some cutters to get the ties off my father. I thought we could escape before Frank got back, call for help.”

Malcolm picks up his glass and downs the rest of his drink, sliding it towards Gil for a refill. 

“Go on,” Gil says, pouring more bourbon for Malcolm.

“He came back as I was helping my father up... he lost it, shouting and screaming at us. He said that I’d been lying to him and that he was going to take my insides out and burn them... make me hollow like my words.”

Gil looks distressed at that, and Malcolm looks away, feeling guilty. There’s so much to be guilty about that Malcolm can’t recognise the different reasons anymore. 

“He had a knife, and he came at me. I tried to get out of the way but there was something behind me and I just knew he was going to kill me. He wanted to so much.”

Malcolm remembers the look in Redfern’s eyes when he was attacking Martin with that knife. He uses all the fear he’d felt then, the pure terror that Redfern was going to take Martin away from him, and transfers it to himself. 

“We should take a break,” Gil says, aware that Malcolm is struggling. 

“No... it’s fine. I’m ok.” Malcolm looks at Gil, the suspicion is still there, but it’s lessened. He must be a better liar than he thought, Malcolm thinks.

“Ok, so that’s when Dr Whitly comes into it?”

“He got in between us... stopped the knife with his hands. It looked bad...” Malcolm realised that with everything else going on, he’d not thought that his fathers hands could be damaged beyond repair. 

“Malcolm, you still with me?” Gil sits forward, his hand outstretched even though the desk prevents him from putting a comforting hand in his knee. Malcolm is grateful for that.

“Sorry, um, so he must have grabbed something from the work bench.”

“Dr Whitly?”

“Yeah,” Malcolm answers. “I didn’t see him do it, but then Frank was dropping the knife and holding his throat and...”

“Hm...” Gil rubs his chin, looking up at the ceiling. “So Martin killed him.”

Malcolm nods. A car horn blares from the street below, but the sound of it makes him jump a mile, his heart skipping so much that it hurts. 

“You ok, kid?”

“I’ve not... I didn’t have my meds. I forgot about it with everything that happened, but I think...”

“We’re nearly done, then I’ll drive you home.”

Malcolm feels the walls sag in towards him. His eyes dart like a trapped animal. 

“Tell me what happened to make you do that to Dr Whitly,” Gil says.

“What? Oh... he wanted to run. I couldn’t let him escape.”

“Did he ask you to go with him?”

The question hangs in the air like a crystal. Whole and delicate until it drops and shatters. 

Malcolm doesn’t wait for it to drop.

“I really just need to go. I have to take my meds and try to sleep, like you said.” He’s aware that he sounds like he’s bordering on hysterical now, but he can’t take the scrutiny anymore. 

“Woah, woah, calm down, it’s fine. We can talk more tomorrow, get all this written up and then...”

“Yeah, tomorrow sure, fine.” Malcolm starts towards the door.

“Wait up I’ll drive you.”

“I’d rather walk,” Malcolm says, his body joining his hand now and trembling wildly. “I need some air, clear my head a little.”

Gil frowns, but Malcolm forces a smile.

“I’m ok, really. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Malcolm!” 

Gil calls out after him but Malcolm is already out the door. His legs are unsteady as he rushes down the stairs, but he doesn’t fall, holding onto the railing so tight his hand hurts.

He wasn’t lying when he said he needed air. When the cold city morning hits him, Malcolm has to stop and just breathe. 

“Fuck...” 

He crosses the street, not wanting Dani or JT to arrive and see him. He can’t have any more untrusting eyes on him, and right now, all Malcolm can think about is the one person he can’t see. 

He’d messed up, doing what he’d done to Martin. He should have let him go, knowing he’d be caught eventually... but what if they’d taken him to another facility somewhere far away. Or worse, if they’d deemed him mentally stable and given him a harsher sentence. Martin could have been looking at the death penalty.

Malcolm shakes his head and cuts down an alley. The smell of breakfast grease and coffee from a cafe makes him want to heave.

He couldn’t risk losing Martin, but he’d ended up losing him anyway. 

Malcolm manages to get home, the journey a blur in his mind. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. 

He should be crying over the blood on his hands, or lying to Gil and the team, but Malcolm’s tears are selfish ones. It’s his own selfish heart and his love, his dark beautiful love for his father, that has done this.

Malcolm undresses and gets in the shower, turning the water on as hot as he can stand. He lets it run over his shoulders and down his back, resting his head on the cold tiles.

He doesn’t get out for a long time.

***

At six am Malcolm undoes his restraints and gets out of bed. For the first night in two weeks he actually managed to get a few hours sleep. A dreamless sleep would have been too much to ask for though.

His nightmares are always the same. 

They’re in the basement. Redfern isn’t there, only Martin, and Malcolm has a knife in his hand. Sometimes it’s the weapon he used to kill frank, and sometimes it’s a scalpel, but there’s always something.

“Kill me, Malcolm. Please...”

Martin’s eyes are so intense that Malcolm can’t look away. His heart hammers in his chest and when he lifts the blade he can feel himself smile. 

He wakes up as soon as he feels his fathers blood spray hot against his face.

Stretching, Malcolm showers, drinks some water and eats an apple. He takes his meds and deletes the messages on his answering machine.

I’ll be his mother, or Ainsley, so he texts them both to tell them he needs space and that he doesn’t want to keep telling them. He doubts he can last more than a few more days without one or both of them barging into his apartment.

The thought of it is just... too much. Malcolm feels like he’s wading through water. Everything he does is slow, and takes so much effort, exhausting him. He feels like a zombie, going through the motions every day, but feeling nothing.

No, that’s not quite true, Malcolm thinks. He does feel things, but if he lets himself examine those things too closely he thinks they’ll consume him.

He aches. 

Hearing his phone vibrate, Malcolm finds it on the arm of the couch. 

A voicemail from his father.

It’s not the first one, it could be the last, but Malcolm is ignoring them either way. 

With no work until the end of the inquest, Malcolm hasn’t had much to keep him occupied. He’s organised his bookshelves, reorganised them, taken some out to read them put each one back. Ainsley sent him a list of “really great box sets” for him to try, but most of them were too boring or too ridiculous to even survive past a couple of episodes.

The last few morning, Malcolm had decided to go for a run, just to get out of the apartment, but each time he’s not had the energy to go further than a block before turning back.

“Maybe I’ll make two blocks today, huh?” Malcolm pours some seed into Sunshine’s cage. “Yeah, probably not.”

Malcolm puts his keys and twenty dollars into his pocket and zips it up. He plans on getting some groceries, maybe look up some healthy recipes later and actually cook something.

“Then if I could just eat more than a few bites that’d be just great.”

Malcolm catches sight of his affirmation cards and picks one up. He’d not bothered with them since the night he’d killed Frank.

“Own your own life.”

Malcolm looks at it for a few seconds, then puts it in the trash, along with the other stack of cards.

***

He’s sweating when he gets back to the apartment, his heart rate a nice fast but steady pace, and he has a bag full of vegetables, pasta and other healthy ingredients in a paper bag tucked under his arm.

On the way upstairs he grabs the mail from the pigeon hole by the door.

“One and a half blocks,” he says, opening his birds cage so she can fly around for a while. “Maybe I’m still alive after all. Although i didn’t think to shower after my run not before it, did I?”

Malcolm sighs. He rejects the idea of a second shower. There’s no one else there to see him anyway.

Starting to unpack the groceries, Malcolm idly sifts through the mail on the counter. There’s a bill, junk mail, something from what looks like a local newspaper, and then a letter.

Malcolm knows the writing as well as he knows his own.

Martin did teach him how to write in the same style after all.

Something about the physicality of a letter gets to Malcolm. The voicemails he could brush aside, they weren’t tangible, so they weren’t real. But, a letter...

Without thinking, Malcolm tears it open, scanning the words greedily, like a man who’s found a stream in the middle of a desert.

Words jump of the page, pleading words, desperate words, and Malcolm feels the paper crease under his fingers. 

They’re not the words he would expect his father to say to him. There’s no disappointment, no anger, no finality. Malcolm had been so sure that his betrayal had pushed his father away completely that he’d dismissed the missed calls and voicemails, convincing himself that they were only going to cause him more suffering. So he’d ignored them.

But... this letter. 

Malcolm exhales. How could he have been so stupid.

He doesn’t bother to change, and he doesn’t put Sunshine back in her cage. Malcolm grabs his keys and runs out into the street and hails the first taxi he sees.

***

Before Martin had been taken from hospital back to Claremont, Malcolm had written a cheque, along with a list of requests that should be put in place for when Martin was back behind bars.

A new bed, double instead of his usual single, with an orthopaedic mattress. A new bookcase and books, as well a new set of headphones. 

Malcolm had also been able to get Martin some extra privileges. It wasn’t much of a shock to see what money and a little persuasion could get.

It’s when he’s standing in the corridor outside Martin’s cell that he sees one of these privileges in use. 

Usually, you can see into Martin’s cell through the reinforced glass between the bars on the door. Now, there are voile type drapes hung over the doors. It gives more of an illusion of privacy, and definitely makes it harder to see clearly into the cell.

Malcolm had the letter in his hand, nerves gripping him now he’s actually here. 

“Does he know I’m here?” Malcolm asks Mr David.

“No,” he replies. “I’ll wait here.”

Malcolm nods. A generous amount of money went to Mr David too. He’d probably let Malcolm do whatever he wanted now, short of a prison break.

Swallowing hard, Malcolm steps into the cell.

Martin is at his desk, a pencil held loosely in his fingers, deep frown lines marring his face. He looks towards the door and does a double take, his pencil falling to the floor.

Malcolm looks at his feet then slowly gains the courage to look at his father again.

“Dad...”

Martin stands, no longer bound to the wall by a chain, though the belt is still around his waist. He comes closer, stopping a few feet from his son.

Eyes sparkling, Martin smiles widely.

“Hello, my boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this the end? Andy, what do you think?


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm goes to see Martin at Claremont.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aghh so this is actually the end! It’s been so fun writing this fic (hard and frustrating at times haha) and I cant believe I’ve finished!
> 
> Thanks so, so much to everyone who has read and liked and commented. Really, it’s been so appreciated. Thank youuuu!
> 
> Huuuuge thank you to my wonderful friend Andy for drawing some incredible art (two gorgeous pieces and the links are on the fic! Please check them out they’re just so hot and so beautiful!), for sinning with me, and for encouraging (and poking me) always, when I doubt that I can even write (most of the time!) you’re the best!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy the last part of this fic!!!

“Hello, my boy.”

Martin looks relieved, happy even, and Malcolm feels so small next to him, dwarfed by his father’s presence.

“I guessed you weren’t answering my calls in case they were monitoring us,” Martin says, touching Malcolm’s arms, his face, ducking his head to get Malcolm to look at him. “We’re safe in here.”

Malcolm steps back, but Martin just follows, his hands everywhere, the feel of him like a balm. But Malcolm doesn’t deserve it.

“What’s wrong? You did get my letter? I assumed that’s why you came.” Martin’s smile slips just a little before he fixes it in place again. “I knew you’d understand when you got it... like you did when you were a boy.”

Martin’s hand cups Malcolm’s cheek and he leans into it as his father continues to talk.

“I saw the letter in your pocket that night you know, and I knew if I sent you one now that you’d come to me.”

Martin’s lips are warm against Malcolm’s forehead, a soft kiss and a breath, inhaling him in like he’s been deprived of oxygen.

It’s everything that Malcolm has suspected. Ever since he found the letter that had been hidden from him by his mother, it’s been eating away at him. The only reason that Martin thought that he came to the prison was because of it, when in reality... it was because he still needed him. He was innocent back then, loved his father like a son should, and despite what he knew about him, that bond was too hard to break.

“That’s not what happened,” Malcolm says, finally finding his voice again. He puts a hand on Martin’s chest and gives himself some room.

“Not what happened?” Martin looks even more confused. 

“I only just found that letter, the one you sent twenty years ago. Mother hid it from me.”

“I see,” Martin replies. “All this time I thought that’s why you came to see me.”

“I know, but it wasn’t. I didn’t want to lose you.” Malcolm lowers his eyes. “It’s why I put you in here again too.”

“Hm.” Martin nods, knowingly. 

He doesn’t look angry at all, or hurt, but Malcolm presses on, wanting to explain himself properly.

“I wanted to go with you... so much. But, it wouldn’t have lasted, and I couldn’t let them take you away from me.” Malcolm sighs. “I killed Frank and I let you take the blame.”

“Shh...” Martin holds his hands up.

“I need to say this, please...”

“Ok, alright, I’m listening.” Martin nods, standing close, but not as close as he wants to be. Malcolm can tell he’s itching to touch him.

Malcolm exhales. “I ignored all of your calls because Gil told me that you didn’t remember anything. I couldn’t think straight, and I figured you hated me for what I did, and all I kept thinking was that I’d been selfish for wanting you around, even if it is in here, and all I’d done was push you away anyway.”

Martin watches silently as Malcolm lifts up the envelope.

“Then I got this and I didn’t know what to do, but I just had to see you.”

Looking down, Malcolm feels exhausted from trying to explain himself.

“Malcolm, look at me.”

Lifting his eyes, Malcolm feels the weight of his fathers gaze.

“Regardless if you got my letter or not, back then and now, you came to see me when it would have been so much easier for you to turn your back. It doesn’t matter if you thought this was the only reason I thought you came to me. You don’t have to feel guilty... Malcolm, you are everything to me.”

“I’m not the son you want me to be. I’m not a killer... not how you want me. I put you in here, twice. I stayed away because I thought you’d...”

“What did you think?”

“I thought...” Malcolm lets out a sound of frustration. “I thought you wanted to forget me, being with me. I saw the way you looked at me when I put my arm around your throat...”

Malcolm sighs and tries so step away again, shame making him want to put distance between them. But Martin won’t have it. Now he’s got Malcolm back again he doesn’t want to let him go.

“Come and sit,” he says, taking Malcolm’s hand. “I’ve got this big new bed, let’s get comfortable.”

Malcolm goes with Martin, no energy to fight or deny himself anymore.

“This was a nice surprise, you know. Extra privileges and all this luxury.” Martin nudges Malcolm’s knee with his own once they’re sitting on the bed.

“It was the least I could do,” Malcolm replies.

“Malcolm, let’s sort this out, so you can stop all this unnecessary self flagellation .” Martin let’s out a huff of breath. “You were right to do what you did. I can’t say I wasn’t shocked, but realistically it was the only option for us to be together. Me behind bars and you free, as it should be. For what it’s worth, I thought the strangulation was thrilling.”

“Dad...” Malcolm starts, but Martin shushes him.

“Ok, ok, look the reason I said I couldn’t remember anything was because I thought it would be best to let you tell the story. I wasn’t in on your clever plan, was I?” Martin smiles and strokes Malcolm’s hair. “You’ve been torturing yourself all this time, haven’t you? My boy, forget about the letters, forget the doubts and all the unnecessary guilt. None of it matters.”

Malcolm leans against his father, the jumbled mess in his head finally starting to make sense.

“I’m still sorry,” he says, sliding his fingers over Martin’s knuckles. “For a lot of things.”

“We’ve all got things to be sorry about, but the case is closed now, and we’re here,” Martin tilts Malcolm’s chin up, “we’re together.”

“I love you,” Malcolm says, his hands running up Martin’s arms before finally settling on his neck. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shh, enough now.” Martin kisses Malcolm’s forehead, his temple and cheek.

“I’m sorry...” Malcolm repeats, unable to stop himself. He needs Martin to know.

Martin keeps kissing him, pulling him closer. He mouths at Malcolm’s jaw, teeth scraping the beard there, then moves down to his throat.

Malcolm gasps, his eyes closing as his father sucks at his pulse point. Martin puts his hands on Malcolm’s waist, sliding his shirt up to get to his skin.

“Mmm, ahh, I’m... I’m sorry... please, I’ve missed you so much...” 

Malcolm moves, hitching his leg over Martin’s lap, straddling him. He settles down, the effects of their reunion on Martin pretty clear. Malcolm rubs his ass against the length of Martin’s cock, feeling it get harder with the motion.

Martin’s arms encircle Malcolm’s waist, pulling him even closer to him. Martin nuzzles at Malcolm’s neck, soft words to calm him being spoken so intimately that Malcolm almost forgets where they are. He imagines this is what they could have had, if they’d run away together. The freedom would have been short lived though, and Malcolm pushes those thoughts away. This is what they have, and it’s more than Malcolm ever dared to dream.

“How long do we have?” Malcolm asks, slowly rocking his hips.

“As long as we want,” Martin replies, kissing the corner of Malcolm’s mouth. “Within reason. But, a few hours at least, thanks to your generous donation to the hospital.”

Malcolm smiles, and it feels so good. The tension he’s been carrying is slowly fading now he’s back in his fathers arms. This is good, he thinks. They’re good.

“Mm, a few hours...” Malcolm captures Martin’s lips, grinding his hips with more force, making his father hiss with pleasure. “I want you.”

Martin’s eyes darken. 

“So bold... hmm, I remember you being bold not too long ago, right here in this cell. The first time I touched you like this.” Martin curls his fingers under Malcolm’s ass, squeezing and stroking him. “Too many clothes.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm agrees. He takes hold of Martin’s belt and opens it quickly, tugging it loose and then pushing at the waistband of his pants.

Martin’s cock is heavy in his hand, wet at the tip, and Malcolm’s mouth waters to taste him, but it seems Martin has other ideas.

“Lift up,” Martin says, getting Malcolm to move onto the bed. Malcolm lies back, pleased at how comfortable it is. He’d made sure Martin had gotten the very best.

Martin’s hands, usually so steady, fumble slightly when trying to open the ties on Malcolm’s jogging bottoms.

“Are they ok?” Malcolm asks, sitting up slightly, touching his fathers hands carefully. He remembers the blood on them after Martin had grabbed the knife Redfern was trying to kill him with.

“No real damage done,” Martin replies. He kisses Malcolm, hard and fast then, guiding him to lie back down again. “It’s just anticipation.”

Martin tries again, this time his fingers are sure and steady, and he slides Malcolm’s pants and underwear down to the tops of his thighs.

“Beautiful,” Martin says, taking Malcolm’s in hand and pressing their cocks together.

“God...” Malcolm moans, arching up. They rub against each other, breathing heavily.

Malcolm’s heels dig into the bed. It feels so good, every inch where Martin is touching him, every searing kiss. This is everything Malcolm needed to feel alive again. 

“Don’t you ever think you’re not the son I want,” Martin pants, their faces so close that their noses brush. “I wouldn’t change you, boy. Not one beautiful part of you.”

Malcolm cries out, and not just from the way his cock head drags up against his fathers. It’s knowing that Martin loves him for who he is.

“Look at you,” Martin says, caging Malcolm in with his body, covering him. Malcolm wishes they had less clothes between them, but neither of them could have waited long enough to take them off.

Letting go of their cocks, Martin braces his arms either side of Malcolm’s shoulders. Malcolm wraps his ankles around Martin’s calves as his father grinds down on him.

“You haven’t touched yourself since I fucked you?”

Martin mouths at Malcolm’s jaw, eventually giving him a messy kiss and sucking on his bottom lip. Malcolm arches up for more, but Martin moves out of reach.

“You didn’t, did you? No putting your fingers inside and thinking about me?”

Shaking his head, Malcolm swallows. His toes curl as the buzzing pressure in his balls rises.

“Hmm, such punishment, denying yourself.” Martin says, sweat gathering at his hairline. “I wouldn’t want you to carry on suffering, my boy. You need a release, and I’m the only one who can give it to you, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Malcolm says, near to a sob. “Please... please...”

Martin kisses him again, his beard digging hard into Malcolm’s skin. 

“Ask me nicely,” Martin says, the smile on his face that could only be described as wicked, keeping his head back when Malcolm tries to chase him for another kiss.

Malcolm tugs at Martin’s shirt, pulling it up his back until he can feel skin. They’re moving so quick now, bodies in that perfect rhythm to give them both what they need. It’s tight, hot and sweaty, and Malcolm knows that it’s not going to last, not for either of them.

“Please... make me come. Please, make me come.” 

Malcolms head tips back against the pillow and Martin takes the chance to bite him there. The sudden flash of pain makes Malcolm moan loudly, bordering on a scream. 

“Daddy... please!”

Martin growls, and shakes, coming against Malcolm’s hip bone. He lowers his forehead until it’s pressed against Malcolm’s, so hard that it hurts.

Seeing Martin fall apart is everything Malcolm was waiting for. He can feel come on his stomach, the slick slide of Martin’s cock against his own, and they’re rutting like animals.

A few more thrusts and Malcolm can feel his orgasm on a knife edge, burning heat waiting to be unleashed.

Martin has come back to himself after his own release, hungry eyes back on his son with a new intensity.

“Come now, boy. Do as daddy says.” He leans close to Malcolm, lips and tongue against the shell of his ear. “Be good for me and I’ll clean you up after. Would you like that? Daddy sucking you clean?”

“Oh fuck, oh fuck... ahh...” Malcolm goes still, teeth clenched as he finally comes, sticky and wet between them.

He can hear his fathers voice, his own heart hammering in his ears, but it’s a long time until he feels the crest of the orgasm fade.

As promised, Martin starts to shift down the bed, kissing Malcolm through his clothing until he reaches his bare stomach. 

“We made a mess of you,” Martin says, laughing softly, moving Malcolm’s cock aside to lick and suck come off his skin.

Malcolm moans, not able to tear his eyes away from his father. He’s still breathing hard, his body drained but satisfied that he feels like melting into the bed. He wishes he could sleep, have Martin wrap himself around him, hold him safe.

“I’ve missed you,” Martin says, licking at Malcolm’s cock now, taking the head into his mouth, and not stopping even when Malcolm hisses at the overstimulation.

“I’m clean enough,” Malcolm says, fingers straining to touch Martin’s shoulders. It’s needy, but Malcolm finds he doesn’t really care much anymore.

Martin looks up at him and smiles, understanding, and he goes to him willingly. He angles his body so as to not crush him, and cups Malcolm’s cheek in his hand. Malcolm closes the distance, initiating the kiss, tongues and lips moving together slowly.

It’s strange, feeling so content, when just beyond the thin drapes is the reality of Claremont, and the rest of the world. 

Inside Martin’s cell though, it’s a sanctuary, and Malcolm has no desire to leave it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll most likely be writing more Martin x Malcolm.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Kisses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23007805) by [merakieros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merakieros/pseuds/merakieros)
  * [Just the Two of Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278186) by [merakieros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merakieros/pseuds/merakieros)




End file.
